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^    SAf^ 


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MASTERPIECES    OF    THE    ENGLISH    DRAMA 

Fe;lix  E.  ScHELi.iNG,  Ph.D.,  LL.D.,  General  Editor 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE:  Tamhurlaine  (both  parts). 
Doctor  Faustiis.  The  /eio  of  Alalia.  B.divard  the  Second. 
With  an  Introduction  by  William  Lyon  Phelps,  Professor  of 
English  Literature,  Yale  University. 

GEORGE  CHAPMAN :  .  ///  Fools.  Eastioard  Ho.  Btissy 
D\4mbois.  The  Revenge  of  Bussy  D\4inl>cis.  With  an 
Introduction  by  Havelock  Ellis,  editor  of  The  Mermaid 
Series  of  English   Dramatists,  etc. 

FRANCIS  BEAUMONT  and  JOHN  FLETCHER:  The 
Maid's  Tragedy.  Philaster.  The  Faithful  Shepherdess. 
Bonduca.  Edited  by  Felix  E.  Schelling,  Professor  of  English 
Literature,  University  of  Pennsylvania. 

BEN  JONSON:  Every  Man  in  His  Humour.  Volpone. 
Epicoine.  The  .Alchemist.  With  an  Introduction  by  Ernest 
Rhys,  editor  of  Dekker's  Plays,  etc. 

THOMAS  MIDDLETON:  Michcehnas  Term.  A  Trick  to 
Catch  tke  Old  One.  A  Fair  Qua7-rel.  The  Changeling. 
Edited  by  Martin  W.  Sampson,  Professor  of  English  Liter- 
ature, Cornell  University. 

PHILIP  MASSINGER:  The  Roman  Actor.  The  Maid  of 
Honour.  .4  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts.  Believe  asYou  List. 
Edited  by  Lucius  A.  Sherman,  Dean  of  the  Graduate  School 
and  Head  Professor  of  English,  University  of  Nebraska. 

JOHN  W^EBSTER  and  CYRIL  TOURNEUR:  The  White 
Devil.  The  Duchess  of  Malji.  Appius  and  Virgitiia.  —  The 
Revenger^  Tragedy.  With  an  Introduction  by  Ashley  H. 
Thorndike,  Professor  of  English,  Columbia  University. 

WTLLIAM  CONGREVE:  The  Double- Dealer.  The  Way  of 
the  World.  Love  for  Love.  The  ALourning  Bride.  With  an 
Introduction  by  William  Archer,  editor  of  Farquhar's  plays, 
etc. 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  and  RICHARD  BRINSLEY 
SHERIDAN  :  The  Good-natured  Man.  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer. — The  Rivals.  The  School  for  Scandal.  'The 
Critic.  Edited  by  Isa=c  N.  Demmon,  Professor  of  English, 
University  of  Michigan. 


l.nWil  ^  lilHill  ^  [illlilllil  ^  lilllilllil  ^  liHyiil  c^  lillliHlil  ^  limilll.l  ^MiW 


From   ;ui   Engraving  after  the   Portrait  by 

Sir  GoDKUKY   Knki.leu 

at  Bayfordhiiry 


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JUasttrpiecc^  of  the  Cni^lisli  ^t^ama 

WILLIAM 
CONGREVE 

WITH   INTRODUCTION   BY 

WILLIAM    ARCHER 

EDITOR   OF    FARQUHAR'S    PLAYS,    ETC. 


NEW  YORK      CINCINNATI      CHICAGO 

AMERICAN  BOOK  COMPANY 


Copyright,  iqi2,  bv 
AMERICAN   BOOK   COMPANY. 

Entered  ai"  Stationeks'  Hall,    London. 


CONGREVE. 
\V.  V.  I 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction i 

The  Double-Dealek 41 

Love  for  Love 143 

The  Way  of  the  World 261 

The  Mourning  Bride 367 

Notes 445 

Glossary 465 


WILLIAM    CONGREVEi 

William  Congreve  came  of  one  of  the  old  land- 
owning families  described,  or  rather  catalogued,  by 
Sheridan  in  the  picture  scene  of  The  School  for  Scandal; 
families  which,  from  generation  to  generation,  pro- 
duced judges,  generals,  parliament  men  and  justices 
of  the  peace;  families  in  which  knighthoods  were 
plentiful,  and  from  which  the  House  of  Peers  was 
commonly  recruited.  Though  Staffordshire  was  the 
home  of  his  race,  he  was  born  at  Bardsey,  near  Leeds, 
where  he  was  baptized  on  February  tenth,  1669-1670. 
His  father,  also  named  William,  was  a  soldier,  and, 
soon  after  the  poet's  birth,  was  given  a  command  at 
Youghal  in  Ireland.  In  Ireland,  therefore,  young 
Congreve  was  brought  up.  At  the  age  of  eleven  or 
thereabouts  he  went  to  Kilkenny  School,  then  the 
Eton  of  Ireland,  where,  for  some  months,  he  had  Jona- 
than Swift  for  a  schoolfellow.  Probably,  however, 
the  friendship  of  the  two  men  dates  from  their  asso- 
ciation at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  whither  Congreve 

^  An  excellent  bibliography  of  the  writings  of  Congreve  by  J.  P. 
Anderson  of  the  British  Museum  "is  attached  as  an  appendix  to 
Mr.  Gosse's  volume  on  Congreve  in  Great  Writers.  The  plays  of 
Congreve  were  first  collected  with  his  other  works  in  Dublin,  1731, 
3  vols.  Two  years  later  a  Tondon  edition  appeared.  The  last 
modern  editions  are  those  of  Leigh  Hunt  (with  Wychcrley,  Van- 
brugh,  and  Farquhar),  1.S40,  and  of  A.  C.  Ewald  in  the  Mermaid 
Series,  1887.  Mr.  Gosse's  Life,  already  mentioned  (London,  1888), 
and  the  article  by  Sir  Sidney  Lee  in  The  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography,  1887,  vol.  xil,  are  trustworthy  biographies. 
CONGREVE  —  I  I 


2  WILLIAM    CONGREVE 

proceeded  in  1685.  Though  we  do  not  hear  of  his 
attaining  any  academical  distinction,  he  became  a 
good  classical  scholar  after  the  seventeenth-century 
pattern,  familiar  with  Latin  literature  and  not  igno- 
rant of  Greek.  At  Trinity  College,  too,  he  is  said  to 
have  made  his  first  essay  in  authorship,  in  the  form  of 
a  novel  named  Incognita;  or,  Love  and  Duty  Recon- 
ciled, which  was  not  published  until  1692.  After 
the  Revolution  of  1688,  both  Congreve  and.  Swift 
came  to  England,  and  Congreve  seems  never  to  have 
recrossed  the  Irish  Channel. 

He  passed  two  years  in  the  country;    for  the  most 
part,  no  doubt,  at  the  family  seat  of  Stratton  in  Staf- 
fordshire.   It  was  during  these  years,  and  probably  in 
the  summer  of  1690,  that  he  wrote  The  Old  Bachelor, 
"to  amuse  himself"  as  he  afterwards  said,  "in  a  slow 
recovery  from  a  fit  of  sickness."     On  March  seven- 
teenth, 1691,  he  was  entered  at  the  Middle  Temple,  and 
began,  or  ought  to  have  begun,  the  study  of  the  law; 
but  as  we  find  him  in  the  autumn  of  1692  "an  accepted 
poet"  and  a  prominent  collaborator  in  the  translation 
of  Juvenal  and  Persius  published  under  Dryden's  edi- 
torship, it  is  doubtful  whether  he  ever  seriously  in- 
tended to  adopt  the  legal  profession.     There  must 
have  been    something  very  ingratiating    in   his  per- 
sonality, for  the  country  youth  was  soon  an  intimate 
friend  of  the  great  John  Dryden,  and  of  several  other 
literary   leaders,    who    hailed    him,   on   astonishingly 
scanty  evidence,  as  the  rising  hope  of  English  poetry. 
Revised  and  polished  by  Dryden  and  Southerne,  The 
Old  Bachelor  was  produced  at  Drury  Lane  in  January, 
1693,   and  was   instantly    successful.     From    Better- 
ton  downwards,  all  the  first  actors  and  actresses  of 


WILLIAM    CONGREVE  3 

the  day  were  engaged  in  it;  and  Anne  Bracegirdle, 
the  beautiful,  the  lovable,  the  discreet,  played  Con- 
greve's  first  heroine,  as  she  was  to  play  all  the  rest. 
The  young  poet  was  overwhelmed  with  eulogies; 
but  it  is  doubtful  whether  he  was  "instantly,"  as 
Macaulay  and  Thackeray  have  stated,  given  a  post  of 
profit  in  the  Civil  Service.  That  in  the  course  of  his 
life  he  held  several  such  posts  *  is  certain ;  but  a  coup- 
let of  Swift's, 

"  And  crazy  Congreve  scarce  could  spare 
A  shilling  to  discharge  his  chair  " — 

seems  to  indicate  that  for  some  time,  and  even  after 
his  health  had  broken  down  about  the  end  of  the  cen- 
tury, he  was  in  straitened  circumstances.  It  must  be 
remembered  that  the  dramatist  of  those  days  was  not 
paid  by  royalties  constantly  rolling  in,  but  by  the 
profits  of  certain  stated  performances.^  The  sale  of  the 
printed  play  was  often  worth  at  least  as  much  to  him 
as  his  share  of  the  theatrical  receipts.  Nevertheless, 
there  is  no  reason  to  doubt  that  Congreve  was  in  the 
main  fortunate  in  money  matters,  as  in  everything 
else  save  health.  He  enjoyed  fat  offices  during  the 
latter  part  of  his  life;  he  was  an  unmarried  man,  and 
his  relations  with  women,  so  far  as  they  are  known, 
seem  to  have  been  characterized  by  a  good  deal  of 
worldly  prudence.  One  might  almost  call  them  sus- 
piciously inexpensive. 

'Commissioner  for  licensing  Hackney  Coaches;  Commissioner 
for  Wine  Licences;  place  in  the  Pipe  Office;  post  in  the  Custom 
House;  Secretary  of  Jamaica.     (Thackeray's  enumeration.) 

^Congreve,  however,  was  in  a  position  to  secure  exceptional 
terms,  and  had  at  different  times  an  actual  share  in  the  manage- 
ment of  the  theatres  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  and  in  the  Havmarkct. 


4  WILLIAM   CONGREVE 

The  great  success  of  The  Old  Bachelor  spurred 
Congreve  to  vigorous  effort,  and  before  the  year  was 
out  (November,  1693)  he  had  placed  on  the  stage  a 
far  more  elaborate  and  highly-polished  work.  The 
Douhle-Dealer.  Once  more  the  cast  was  a  superb 
one,  Betterton  playing  Maskwell,  Mrs.  Barry  the  V0I7 
canic  Lady  Touchwood,  and  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  (by 
this  time  the  author's  intimate  friend)  the  sedate  but 
not  unamiable  Cynthia.  Theatrical  success,  however, 
is  not  always  commensurate  with  effort,  and  The 
Douhle-Dealer  was  a  comparative  failure.  The  rea- 
sons for  this  check  we  shall  have  to  examine  later; 
in  the  meantime  it  is  sufficient  to  record  that  Con- 
greve published  the  play  with  a  rather  ill-tempered 
Epistle  Dedicatory  to  Charles  Montague,^  and  that 
his  vanity  was  soothed  by  a  magnificent  copy  of  verses, 
signed  John  Dryden,  in  w^hich  the  monarch  of  con- 
temporary letters  generously  proclaimed  him  heir 
apparent  to  the  throne.  Thus  heartened,  Congreve 
set  about  the  composition  of  his  third  comedy,  the 
famous   Love  for   Love. 

While  he  was  writing  it,  however,  the  affairs  of 
the  Theatre  Royal,  then  the  only  playhouse  in  Lon- 
don,^ fell  into  sad  disorder,  which  ended  in  a  split 
between  the  patentee  managers  and  their  leading 
actors,  headed  by  Betterton.  The  seceding  players 
obtained  a  special  licence  from  William  III,  and 
constructed  a  new  theatre  within  the  walls  of  a 
tennis-court    in   Lincoln's    Inn    Fields.      At    Easter, 


'  He  afterwards  suppressed  the  passages  in  which  his  annoyance 
was  most  apparent. 

^  The  theatre  in  Dorset  Gardens  existed,  indeed,  but  had  alinost 
fallen  into  disuse,  except  for  opera. 


WILLIAM    CONGREVE  5 

1695,  the  enterprise  was  inaugurated  with  the  pro- 
duction of  Love  for  Love,  which,  with  Bettertorx, 
as  Valentine,  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  as  Angelica,  and 
Doggctt  as  Ben,  scored  an  almost  unexampled  suc- 
cess, and  placed  Congreve  easily  first  among  the 
dramatists  of  the  day.  Two  years  elapsed  before  he 
followed  up  this  success  with  another,  in  a  different 
line  of  art.  The  Mourning  Bride^  is  now  remembered 
mainly  because  Dr.  Johnson  overpraised  a  single 
speech  in  it;  but  for  more  than  a  hundred  years  it 
was  one  of  the  most  popular  of  English  tragedies. 

Mr.  Gosse  has  shown  that  The  Mourning  Bride 
was  produced  early  in  1697.  Just  a  year  later  (March, 
1698)  appeared  that  famous  invective,  Jeremy  Col- 
lier's Short  View  of  the  Immorality  and  Profaneness 
of  the  English  Stage.  On  the  subject  of  "profane- 
ness" Collier's  ecclesiastical  prejudices  led  him.  to 
weaken  his  case  by  many  trivial  and  ridiculous  cavil- 
lings; but  on  the  side  of  immorality  he  may  be  said 
to  have  understated  rather  than  exaggerated.  Injto 
the  controversy  which  ensued  Congreve  entered  late 
and  reluctantly,  with  a  long  pamphlet  entitled  Amend- 
ments of  Mr.  Collier's  False  and  Imperfect  Citations. 
Its  tone  and  temper  were  unfortunate;  but  the 
writers  who  pronounce  it  an  unmitigated  blunder  are 
perhaps  judging  it  by  modern  canons  of  taste  rather 
than  by  those  of  the  seventeenth  century.  % 

We  shall  have  to  consider  later  whether  the  moral 
atmosphere  of  Congreve's  comedies  can  be  justified,  or 
must  be  condemned,  or  (as  Lamb  would  persuade  us) 
ought  simply  to  be  ignored.  Meanwhile,  we  may  note 
that  Congreve's  impenitence  under  the  scourge  of  Col- 
1  See  also  the  note  on  page  368. 


6  WILLIAM    CONGREVE 

lier  was  evidently  unaffected.  He  was  not  seeking,  by 
bluster,  to  dissemble  a  conviction  of  sin ;  for  the  moral 
atmosphere  of  his  next  and  last  comedy.  The  Way  of 
the  World,  was  neither  better  nor  worse  than  that  of 
its  predecessors.  In  The  Old  Bachelor  and  Love  for 
Love  there  are,  indeed,  one  or  two  passages  of  greater 
verbal  grossness  than  any  which  we  find  in  The  Way 
of  the  World,  but  that  is  simply  attributable  to  the 
higher  animal  spirits  of  the  two  plays.  In  point  of 
verbal  decency  or  indecency  The  Way  of  the  World  is 
very  much  on  a  level  with  The  Doubk-Dealer,  which 
preceded  Collier's  attack  by  more  than  four  years; 
while  in  the  total  absence  of  any  standard  of  rectitude, 
or  even  of  merely  conventional  honour,  all  four  plays 
are  entirely  of  a  piece.  There  is  thus  no  sign  either 
of  repentance  or  of  bravado  in  the  post-Collier  comedy. 
Comedy,  for  Congreve,  micant  a  picture  of  society 
observed  from  a  standpoint  of  complete  moral  in- 
difference; and  if  the  public  chose  to  quarrel  with 
that  standpoint,  why,  then  they  should  have  no  more 
comedies. 

I  would  not,  however,  be  understood  to  imply  that 
the  scant  success  of  The  Way  of  the  World  (produced 
in  March,  1700)  was  due  to  a  moral  reaction  in  the 
public  mind,  consequent  on  Collier's  rebuke,  or  that 
Congreve  ceased  to  write  simply  because  he  realized 
that  the  spirit  of  the  age  was  against  him.  The  effect 
of  Collier's  diatribe  was  not  nearly  so  immediate  and 
startling  as  it  is  sometimes  represented  to  have  been. 
It  did  not  prevent  the  success  of  Farquhar's  Love  and 
a  Bottle,  produced  in  December,  1698,  while  the  air 
was  still  full  of  echoes  of  the  pamphlet  war;  and 
the  immense  popularity  of  Farquhar's  The  Constant 


WILLIAM   CONGREVE  7 

Couple,  produced  only  three  or  four  months  before 
The  Way  of  the  World,  proves  that  the  public  was  in  no 
unreasonably  squeamish  mood.  The  Constant  Cotiple, 
indeed,  was  still  at  the  height  of  its  success  when 
TJie  Way  of  fJie  World  was  produced;  and  it  may 
perhaps  be  conjectured  that  the  fashion  of  the  moment 
set  towards  Farquhar's  lighter,  airier  humour,  in 
contradistinction  to  Congreve's  more  elaborate  em- 
broidery of  wit. 

I  believe,  however,  and  shall  try  to  show  later, 
that  the  cool  reception  of  The  Way  of  the  World 
was  probably  due  in  the  main  to  purely  tech- 
nical reasons.  Congreve's  statement  in  his  Epistle 
Dedicatory  that  "but  little"  of  the  play  "was  pre- 
pared for  that  general  taste  which  seems  now  to  be 
predominant  in  the  palates  of  our  audiences,"  might 
at  first  sight  seem  like  an  allusion  to  a  change  of  heart 
begotten  by  Collier's  influence ;  but  the  context  shows 
that  he  has  in  mind,  not  a  moral  reaction,  but  a  pref- 
erence for  what  he  considers  coarse  and  overcharged 
character-drawing.  As  years  went  on,  and  the  come- 
dies of  Steele,  with  the  later  works  of  Farquhar,  took 
possession  of  the  stage,  Congreve  may  very  well  have 
felt  that  the  public  mind  was  veering  away  from  that 
attitude  of  moral  indifference  which  was  to  him  the 
great  condition-precedent  of  comedy ;  and  this  feeling 
may  have  combined  with  his  natural  indolence,  and 
his  lingering  resentment  over  the  reception  of  The 
Way  of  the  World,  to  deter  him  from  again  tempting 
fortune  in  the  theatre.  But  it  would  almost  certainly 
be  a  mistake  to  attribute  the  silence  of  his  later  years 
to  any  one  cause,  and  most  of  all  to  see  in  it  a  direct 
result  of  Collier's  onslaught. 


8  WILLIAM   CONGREVE 

Whatever  the  reason,  Congreve's  career  as  a  drama- 
tist was  now  at  an  end.  Except  a  masque  called 
The  Judgement  of  Paris,  an  opera,  Semele,  and  an 
adaptation  of  Moliere's  Monsieur  de  Pourceaugnac  in 
which  he  collaborated  with  Vanbrugh  and  Walsh, 
he  did  nothing  more  for  the  stage.  Until  his  death, 
nearly  thirty  years  later,  he  lived  the  life  of  a  well-to-do 
gentleman  ^  of  literary  tastes  and  of  a  sadly  impaired 
constitution.  He  was  a  constant  martyr  to  gout  in 
all  its  insidious  forms,  including  painful  and  tedious 
affections  of  the  eyes.  Moreover,  even  before  he 
reached  middle  age,  he  had  grown  very  fat;  so  that 
the  spectacle  of  his  later  years  has  more  than  a  touch 
of  that  physical  grotesqueness  which  so  often  afflicts 
us  in  the  personal  chronicles  of  the  eighteenth  century 
—  probably  because  that  age  was  less  careful  than  our 
own  to  dissemble  its  uglier  aspects.  His  literary  repu- 
tation remained  very  high.  He  was  the  peer  and 
valued  friend  of  Swift,  Addison,  Steele,  Arbuthnot, 
Gay  and  Pope.  His  cheerful  and  equable  disposi- 
tion made  him  acceptable  in  every  society;  he  was  on 
good  terms  with  both  political  parties  and  all  literary 
cliques.  To  him  Pope  dedicated  his  translation  of 
the  Iliad,  a  distinction  dukes  might  have  envied;  and, 
as  Mr.  Gosse  happily  puts  it,  "Not  Mrs.  Blimber 
merely,  but  every  lover  of  letters,  might  wish  to  have 
been  admitted,  behind  a  curtain,  to  the  dinner  of  five 

1  Mr.  Gosse  has,  very  justly  in  my  opinion,  attempted  to  vin- 
dicate Congrcve  against  the  reproach  of  vanity  or  affectation  in 
saying  to  Voltaire  that  he  was  to  be  rcgarrled  "simply  as  a  gentle- 
man who  led  a  life  of  plainness  and  simplicity."  He  probably 
meant  that  his  literary  achievements,  whatever  their  value,  were 
now  things  of  the  distant  past,  and  had  ceased,  as  it  were,  to  bj 
part  of  his  present  self. 


WILLIAM    CONGREVE  9 

at  Twickenham,  on  the  seventh  of  July,  1726,  when 
Pope  entertained  Congreve,  Bolingbroke,  Gay,  and 
Swift." 

In  the  latter  years  of  his  life  —  that  is  to  say,  when 
he  was   well   advanced    in  middle  asre  —  he   became 

o 

a  constant  guest  in  the  household  of  Henrietta, 
Duchess  of  Marlborough,  the  eccentric  daughter  of 
the  great  Duke.  To  her  he  left  the  bulk  of  his  fortune, 
and  to  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  only  two  hundred  pounds  — 
no  doubt  on  the  scriptural  principle  that  to  her  that 
hath  shall  be  given.  His  apparent  desertion  of  the 
actress-friend,  to  whose  beauty  and  genius  he  owed 
so  much,  has  been  often  and  severely  commented  on ; 
but  in  such  matters  it  is  wise  to  withhold  judgement 
until  we  know  all  the  circumstances ;  whereas  here  all 
is  empty  conjecture.  Congreve  died  on  January  nine- 
teenth, 1729,  and  a  week  later  was  buried  with  great 
pomp  in  Westminster  Abbey.  The  Duchess  of  Marl- 
borough erected  the  monument  over  his  grave,  and 
is  said  to  have  kept  his  memory  alive  in  her  household 
by  nursing  and  tending  a  figure  of  wax  or  ivory  made 
in  his  image.  Serious  biographers  accept  the  legend, 
but  it  is  probably  an  absurd  misunderstanding  or 
misrepresentation  of  some  very  trivial  fact. 

The  fate  of  Congreve's  plays  in  their  novelty  was, 
on  the  face  of  it,  paradoxical,  and  calculated  to  beget 
in  him  a  contempt  for  the  public  judgement.  He  very 
well  knew  that  The  Double-Dealer  was  a  far  maturer 
effort  than  The  Old  Bachelor,  and  that  The  Way  of  the 
World  was  a  much  finer  piece  of  work  than  Love  for 
Love.  Yet  The  Old  Bachelor  and  Love  for  Love  were 
triumphantly    successful,    while    The    Double-Dealer 


lO  WILLIAM    CONGREVE 

and  The  Way  of  the  World  were  comparative  failures. 
Whether  he  actually  formed  such  a  resolve  or  not,  it 
would  certainly  not  have  been  surprising  if,  after  the 
cool  acceptance  of  the  play  illumined  by  the  exquisite 
creation  of  Millamant,  he  had  vowed,  as  Genest  says, 
"to  commit  his  quiet  and  his  fame  no  more  to  the 
caprices  of  an  audience." 

Yet,  had  he  been  able  to  look  into  the  matter  with 
dispassionate  penetration,  he  might  have  found  the  pub- 
lic judgement  not  so  very  capricious  after  all.  Many 
theories  have  from  time  to  time  been  advanced  to 
explain  why  the  curve  of  success  ran  so  directly  counter 
(it  would  seem)  to  the  curve  of  merit;  but  the  main 
and  sufficient  reason,  I  think,  was  a  purely  technical 
one.  For  the  immediate  success  of  a  new  play,  the 
one  thing  absolutely  needful  is  clearness  of  construc- 
tion. An  audience  cannot  endure  to  have  its  atten- 
tion overtaxed  in  a  futile  elYort  to  follow  the  windings 
of  a  labyrinthine  intrigue;  and  that  was  precisely 
the  task  which,  in  The  Double-Dealer,  and  to  a  less 
degree  in  The  Way  of  the  World,  Congreve  had  im- 
posed upon  his  public.  In  both  cases  he  rashly  es- 
sayed to  write  a  "well-made  play,"  without  possessing 
the  rudiments  of  what  was  then  an  undiscovered,  or 
at  any  rate  an  unimported,  art.  Now  there  is  nothing 
more  irritating  than  a  play  which  sets  forth  to  be  well- 
made,  but  is,  in  fact,  helplessly  ill-made;  so  that  it 
need  not  at  all  surprise  us  to  find  that  The  Double- 
Dealer  and  The  Way  of  the  World  had  to  live  down 
the  confused  and  fatiguing  impression  which  they  at 
first  produced,  whereas  the  comparatively  simple 
and  perspicuous  action  of  The  Old  Bachelor  and  Love 
for  Love  offered  no  obstacles  to  instant  appreciation. 


WILLIAM    CONGREVE  II 

We  must  not  forget,  of  course,  that  the  accepted 
dramatic  formula  or  ideal  of  that  age  was  widely  dif- 
ferent from  that  which  is  now  dominant.     Unity  of 
action,  or  at  any  rate  of  theme,  is  to  our  mind  indis- 
pensable in  any  play  which  pretends  to  rank  as  a  work 
of  art.     The  dramatist  seizes  upon  a  crisis  in  the  lives 
of  his  characters,  states  its  conditions,  and  follows  its 
evolution  to  an  end,  comic  or  tragic,  ironic  or  senti- 
mental, as  the  case  may  be.     We  start  from  a  state  of 
calm  which  contains  in  it  the  elements  of  a  dramatic 
conflict;    we  see  these  elements   rush   together  and 
effervesce ;   and  we  watch  the  effervescence  die  back 
again  into  calm,  whether  it  be  that  of  triumph  or 
disaster,  of  serenity  or  despair.     No  dramatist  of  the 
smallest  skill  will  introduce  a  character  that  is  wholly 
unnecessary  to  the  advancement  of  the  action,  or  a 
conversation  that  has  no  bearing  on  the  theme.     In 
a  second-rate  order  of  plays,  indeed,  a  certain  amount 
of  "comic"  (or  sentimental)  "relief"  may  be  admitted; 
but  even  if,  for  instance,  a  pair  of  young  lovers  is 
suffered  to  lighten  the  gloom  of  a  tragic  story,  an 
effort  is  always  made  to  weave  them  into  the  main 
fabric  and  give  them  an  efficient  part  in  it.     This 
conception  of  a  play  as  the  logical  working-out  of  a 
given  subject  has  had  for  its  necessary  consequence 
the  total  abandonment  of  the  old  five-act  convention. 
The  main  crisis  of  which  the  action  consists  falls  natu- 
rally and  almost  inevitably  into  a  series  of  sub-crises, 
to  each  of  which  an  act  is  devoted.     Five  acts  are  still 
the  limit  which  can  scarcely  be  exceeded  in  the  three 
hours  to  which  a  representation  is  confined;    but  a 
four-act  distribution  of  the  subject  is  far  commoner, 
while  three  acts  —  a  beginning,  middle,  and  end  — 


12  WILLIAM    CONGREVE 

may  almost  be  called  the  normal  and  logical  modern 
form. 

In  Congreve's  day,  on  the  other  hand,  the  drama- 
tist's problem  was,  not  to  give  his  action  an  organic 
unity,  but  to  fill  a  predetermined  mould,  so  large  that 
one  action  seldom  or  never  sufficed  for  it.  The  under- 
plot, therefore,  was  an  established  institution;  and 
sometimes  a  play  would  consist  of  two  or  three  loosely 
interwoven  actions,  so  nearly  equal  in  extent  and  im- 
portance that  it  was  hard  to  say  which  was  the  main 
plot  and  which  the  underplots.  The  result  of  this 
mingling  of  heterogeneous  matters  was  to  render 
doubly  difficult  the  manipulation  of  a  complex  in- 
trigue. Audiences,  indeed,  were  not  so  exacting  on 
the  score  of  probability  as  they  now  are.  But  though 
they  would  accept  a  good  deal  that  we  should  now 
reject  as  extravagant,  they  wanted  to  understand 
what  they  were  accepting;  and  that  they  could  not 
do  when  a  chain  of  events  demanding  close  and  con- 
tinuous attention  was  being  constantly  interrupted 
by  the  humours  and  intrigues  of  subsidiary  characters. 
Both  from  internal  and  external  evidence,  we  can  see 
that  Congreve's  keen  intellect  was  dissatisfied  with 
the  loosely-knit  patchwork  play  of  the  period.  In 
the  preface  to  The  Douhle-Dealer  he  says :  "  I  made 
the  plot  as  strong  as  I  could,  because  it  was  single; 
and  I  made  it  single,  because  I  would  avoid  confusion, 
and  was  resolved  to  preserve  the  three  unities  of  the 
drama."  In  the  preface  to  The  Way  of  the  World, 
again,  he  complains  of  the  spectators  "  who  come  with 
expectation  to  laugh  at  the  last  act  of  a  play,  and  are 
better  entertained  with  two  or  three  unseasonable 
jests,  than  with  the  artful  solution  of  the  fable."   These 


WILLIAM    CONGREVE  13 

remarks  show  a  technical  ideal  far  in  advance  of  his 
time ;  but  whenever  he  essayed  to  realize  that  ideal, 
he  met  with  misfortune;  partly  because  his  manipu- 
lative skill  was  inadequate  to  the  tasks  he  set  himself, 
partly  because  the  five-act  form,  forbidding  continu- 
ity and  concentration,  unduly  handicapped  what 
skill  he  possessed. 

Such,  at  least,  is  my  solution  of  the  seeming  paradox 
presented  by  the  success  of  his  less  elaborate,  and 
the  comparative  failure  of  his  more  elaborate,  come- 
dies. Let  us  look  a  little  more  closely  into  their 
texture. 

In  The  Old  Bachelor  we  have  three  or  four  concur- 
rent plots,  which  become  interwoven,  indeed,  at  the 
end,  but  up  to  that  point  present  no  complexity.  The 
Bcllmour-Fondlewife-La?titia  plot  may  at  once  be 
set  aside  as  independent  of  all  the  others.  It  is  the 
traditional  farce  of  the  citizen  befooled  by  the  courtier, 
a  legacy  from  Jacobean  times,  a  piece  of  conventional, 
imitative  cynicism,  characteristic  of  the  boy  beginner. 
It  is  loosely  attached  to  the  main  action  at  the  begin- 
ning and  at  the  end:  at  the  beginning,  by  the  fact 
that  Vainlove  illustrates  his  character  by  handing  on 
the  adventure  to  Bellmour ;  at  the  end,  by  the  chance 
that  Bcllmour's  adoption  of  the  clerical  habit  suggests 
the  device  of  the  mock-marriage  between  Heartwell 
and  Sylvia.  Otherwise  the  episode  might  be  bodily 
lifted  out  of  the  play,  and  presented  as  what  we 
should  now  call  a  one-act  "  curtain-raiser." 

The  Wittol-Bluffe-Sharpcr  scenes  are  another 
commonplace  of  the  Jacobean  stage,  an  interlude  of 
what,  in  the  days  before  the  War,  had  been  called 
"coney-catching."     Wittol   and    Bluffe  came  in  use- 


14  WILLIAM    CONGREVE 

f  ul  in  the  last  act  as  the  victims  of  the  masked-marriage 
hoax  which  was  such  a  popular  solution  of  the  im- 
broglios of  the  period;  but  otherwise  they  too  might 
have  dropped  out  of  the  action  and  left  no  sensible 
gap.  Bellmour  and  Belinda,  again,  are  mere  foils  to 
Vainlove  and  Araminta;  their  amorous  bickerings 
could  be  suppressed  without  injury  to  the  structure 
of  the  comedy.  There  remain,  then,  the  Heartwell- 
Sylvia  and  Vainlove-Araminta  episodes,  loosely  con- 
nected by  the  fact  that  Sylvia,  in  her  jealousy,  tries 
to  make  mischief  between  her  seducer  and  his  new 
flame.  In  neither  of  these  episodes  is  there  any  com- 
plexity :  they  proceed  side  by  side,  simply  and  straight- 
forwardly, until  the  last  act  is  reached. 

Then  the  mock-marriage  of  Heartwell  and  Sylvia, 
and  the  masked  marriages  of  Sylvia  and  Lucy  to 
Wittol  and  Bluffe,  put  a  certain  tax  not  only  on  the 
credulity  of  the  audience  but  on  its  power  of  keeping 
clear  the  threads  of  an  intricate  series  of  deceptions. 
But  this  was  a  form  of  complexity  to  which  the  public 
was  thoroughly  inured;  and  the  trick,  from  first  to 
last,  occupied  only  some  ten  or  fifteen  minutes,  thus 
placing  no  strain  upon  the  attention.  The  comedy 
ended  in  a  burst  of  cynical  merriment;  and  it  is  re- 
corded that  the  successive  unmasking  of  four  beauti- 
ful women  (Mrs.  Leigh, ^  Mrs.  Bracegirdle,  Mrs. 
Mountford,  and  Mrs.  Bowman)  gave  the  audience 
such  delight  that  they  burst  into  a  thunder  of  applause. 

Here,  then,  was  a  play  compounded  of  quite  famil- 
iar elements,   and  attempting  nothing    in  the    least 

*  Davies,  who  records  the  fact,  made  Mrs.  Barry  one  of  the  four, 
and  omitted  Mrs.  Leigh.  But  Mrs.  Barry,  who  played  Laetitia, 
was  not  "on  "  in  the  last  act. 


WILLIAM   CONGREVE  1 5 

new  or  ambitious  in  technic.  It  was  the  reverse  of 
"well-made";  it  was  a  mere  bundle  of  different  ac- 
tions without  any  necessary  interdependence.  But 
each  of  the  actions  was  clear,  spirited,  and  suited  to 
the  taste  of  the  day;  and  the  familiarity  of  the  ma- 
terial was  redeemed  by  the  novel  vivacity  of  the  au- 
thor's wit.  No  wonder  the  young  playwright,  said 
to  be  regarded  by  Dryden  as  the  rising  hope  of  the 
stage,  was  greeted  with  general  acclaim. 

The  character  of  his  next  play  was  as  different  as 
its  fate ;  and  the  dift'erence  is  so  full  of  instruction,  even 
for  the  modern  playwright,  that  I  must  beg  the  reader's 
indulgence  if  T  analyz.e  The  Double-Dealer  at  some 
length. 

This  remarkable  melodrama  —  for  a  comedy  it 
can  scarcely  be  called  —  might  serve  as  a  typical 
specimen  of  an  ill-made  "  well-made  play  " ;  or,  in 
other  words,  a  standing  example  of  the  dangers  of 
misdirected  ingenuity.  Its  title-character,  Maskwell, 
the  Double-Dealer,  is  its  ruin.  The  incredible  daring 
of  his  turpitude  he  shares  with  lago  and  with  a  thou- 
sand villains  of  melodrama.  But  lago's  intrigues 
are  perfectly  clear  and  comprehensible;  whereas 
Maskwell's  are  so  involved  and  obscure  that  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  unravel  their  tangled  skein. 
I  propose,  however,  to  make  the  attempt. 

First,  the  reader  (or  the  audience)  has  to  master 
a  complex  set  of  relationships  —  always  a  defect  in 
drama.  Lord  Touchwood,  an  elderly  nobleman,  has 
married  the  sister  (the  much  younger  sister,  we  must 
assume)  of  one  Sir  Paul  Plyant.  Sir  Paul  by  his  first 
wife  has  had  a  daughter  named  Cynthia,  now  grown 
up;    and  he  has  married  a  second  wife,  the  Lady 


l6  WILLIAM   CONGREVE 

Plyant  of  the  play.  Now  Lord  Touchwood  has  a 
nephew  and  heir  presumptive  named  Mellefont,  who 
is  betrothed  to  Cynthia  Plyant.  The  "writings" 
are  to  be  "settled"  on  the  very  day  on  which  the  ac- 
tion passes,  and  the  marriage  is  "appointed"  for  the 
morrow. 

Mellefont,  however,  knows  that  his  uncle's  wife, 
Lady  Touchwood,  will  do  all  she  can  to  prevent  his 
marriage  with  Cynthia,  because  she  is  herself  fran- 
tically in  love  with  him  and  fiercely  resentful  of  his 
rejection  of  her  advances.  He  has  a  friend,  Jack 
Maskwell,  whom  he  has  introduced  into  Lord  Touch- 
wood's household,  it  does  not  appear  in  what  capacity ; 
and  this  friend  he  has  commissioned  to  watch  Lady 
Touchwood  narrowly,  and  give  him  notice  if  she  at- 
tempts any  move  to  his  disadvantage.  But  in  a 
scene  between  Maskwell  and  Lady  Touchwood  we 
very  soon  learn  that  she  is  his  (Maskwell's)  mistress  — 
he  has  caught  her  on  the  rebound  from  her  rejection 
by  Mellefont  —  and  that  he  is  plotting  with  her  to 
prevent  Mellefont's  marriage  with  Cynthia.  As  yet 
—  that  is  to  say,  in  Act  I  —  they  have  hit  on  nothing 
better  than  to  persuade  Lady  Plyant,  Cynthia's 
foolish  and  affected  stepmother,  that  Mellefont's 
addresses  to  her  stepdaughter  mask  a  passion  for 
herself.  Lady  Touchwood  justly  observes  that  this 
is  "a  trifling  design;  for  her  first  conversing  with 
Mellefont  will  convince  her  of  the  contrary";  to 
which  Maskwell  replies :  "  I  know  it.  —  I  don't  depend 
upon  it.  —  But  it  will  prepare  something  else;  and  gain 
us  leisure  to  lay  a  stronger  plot." 

Here,  manifestly,  is  a  grave  technical  error.  The 
conspirators  have  only  a  few  hours  at  their  command, 


WILLIAM   CONGREVE  17 

for  it  is  already  afternoon,  and  the  signing  of  the  settle- 
ment is  to  take  place  that  evening;  yet  they  waste 
energy  on  a  plot  which  they  know  must  fail,  in  order 
to  "gain  leisure"  for  a  stronger  contrivance.  It  is 
true,  no  doubt,  that  the  law  of  economy  which  pre- 
vails in  our  stricter  forms  of  drama  had  not  the  same 
force  in  the  patchwork  plays  of  that  period.  Yet  it 
can  never  have  been  otherwise  than  dangerous  to 
demand  the  attention  of  an  audience  for  an  intrigue 
confessedly  foredoomed  to  failure,  at  a  time  when  the 
whole  hopes  of  the  intriguers  depended  upon  prompt 
and  effective  action. 

The  device,  however,  is  temporarily  successful, 
thanks  to  the  voluble  vanity  of  Lady  Plyant  and  the 
unbounded  credulity  of  Sir  Paul.  It  furnishes  a 
couple  of  good  comedy  scenes,  the  main  substance  of 
the  second  act.  Towards  the  close  of  the  act.  Mask- 
well  meets  the  distracted  Mellcfont  and  reassures 
him  (oddly  enough !)  by  the  information  that  he  has 
wormed  himself  into  the  confidence  of  Lady  Touch- 
wood by  pretending  to  be  her  confederate  against 
Mellefont,  and  even  "encouraging"  her,  for  Melle- 
font's  "diversion,"  in  slandering  him  to  Lady  Plyant. 
He  tells  him,  moreover,  that  to  convince  Lady  Touch- 
wood that  he  really  shares  her  hatred  of  Mellefont,  he 
has  told  her  that  he  (Maskwell)  has  "been  long  se- 
cretly in  love  with  Cynthia,"  and  hopes  to  succeed  to 
her  hand  and  fortune  when  Mellefont  is  ruined.  x\ll 
this  is  supposed  in  some  way  to  console  Mellefont 
mightily;  but  Maskwell  does  not  show  how  Mellc- 
font's  cause  has  been  in  any  practical  way  advanced  by 
his  elaborate  duplicity.  Then,  when  Mellefont  is 
gone,  he  lets  us  see,  in  a  soliloquy,  that  he  is  really 

CONGREVE  —  2 


l8  WILLIAM    CONGREVE 

in  love  with  Cynthia,  and  that  this  is  the  ultimate 
motive  of  his  whole  policy. 

These  scenes  are  injudicious  in  the  extreme.  It  is 
their  smallest  fault,  perhaps,  that  they  make  Melle- 
font's  credulity  seem  excessive  and  contemptible. 
He  has  been  warned  by  his  true  friend,  Careless,  not 
to  put  too  much  trust  in  Maskwell ;  yet  it  never  occurs 
to  him  to  wonder  whether  the  man  who  makes  such  a 
boast  of  duping  Lady  Touchwood  (and  to  such  small 
apparent  purpose)  may  not  be  duping  other  people 
as  well.  Still  more  unfortunate,  from  the  technical 
point  of  view,  is  the  impossibility  of  distinguishing 
truth  from  falsehood  in  Maskwell's  statements.  He 
tells  Mellefont  that  in  order  to  hoodwink  Lady  Touch- 
wood he  has  affected  to  be  in  love  with  Cynthia; 
whereas  the  truth  is  that  he  loves  her  without  any 
affectation,  and  has  breathed  no  word  of  it  to  Lady 
Touchwood. 

So  stated,  the  matter  seems  tolerably  simple;  but 
it  is  only  in  the  light  of  after  events  that  all  this  is  as- 
certained. At  the  point  we  have  reached,  the  audience 
has  no  means  of  knowing  what  to  believe  or  what  to 
disbelieve,  and  has  merely  a  sense  of  being  lost  in  a 
maze  of  duplicity.  Congreve  was  partly  led  astray 
by  the  desire  to  draw  an  original  type  of  villain  whose 
method  should  be  to  deceive  people  by  telling  them  the 
truth. ^  The  notion  was  ingenious;  but  it  demanded 
the  inventive  craftsmanship  of  a  Scribe  to  carry  it  out 
successfully;  and  this  Congreve  was  far  from  possessing. 

^  Maskwell  says  in  Act  V :  "  I  must  deceive  Mellefont  once 
more.  .  .  .  Now  will  I,  in  my  old  way,  discover  the  whole  and 
real  truth  of  the  matter  to  him,  that  he  may  not  suspect  one  word 
on't."  See  also  the  motto  from  Terence  on  the  title-page  of 
the  play. 


WILLIAM   CONGREVE  19 

At  the  beginning  of  Act  III,  Lady  Touchwood, 
apparently  acting  on  her  own  initiative,  accuses  Melle- 
font  to  Lord  Touchwood  of  having  persecuted  her 
with  his  addresses.  This  is,  of  course,  the  master 
card  in  her  ladyship's  hand,  and  ought  to  have  been 
played  with  all  possible  care  and  deliberation;  yet  an 
hour  or  so  before,  when  she  and  Maskwell  adopted  a 
"trifling  design"  in  order  to  "gain  leisure  to  lay  a 
stronger  plot,"  this  obvious  piece  of  villainy  does  not 
seem  to  have  occurred  to  either  of  them.  No  skilful 
dramatist  would  have  discounted  his  great  effect  by 
thus  giving  it  the  air  of  a  fortuitous  afterthought. 
Lord  Touchwood  believes  his  wife's  story,  and  deter- 
mines to  disown  and  disinherit  Mellefont ;  whereupon 
she,  in  elation  at  her  success,  arranges  an  amorous 
rendezvous  with  Maskwell  at  eight  o'clock  in  her 
bedchamber.  Mellefont  then  entering,  Maskwell 
(true  to  his  system)  tells  him  of  this  arrangement, 
and  suggests  that  he  (Mellefont)  should  come  upon 
the  scene  of  the  assignation  and  thus  ever  afterwards 
have  his  aunt  at  his  mercy.  Mellefont  agrees  with 
enthusiasm,  and  calls  down  blessings  on  the  head  of 
his  friend  and  "better  genius." 

Though  there  are  many  improbabilities  in  this 
combination,  it  is  plausible  enough  according  to  the 
accepted  conventions  of  that  day,  and  it  holds  out 
promise  of  a  strong  situation.  But  what  does  Congreve 
do  ?  He  suft'ers  the  interest  of  the  audience  to  evapo- 
rate while  he  carries  forward  the  two  underplots  — ■ 
the  amours  of  Careless  and  Lady  Plyant,  Brisk  and 
Lady  Froth  —  in  a  series  of  scenes  which  fill  forty-two 
pages  of  the  edition  of  17 10,  and  must  have  taken  at 
least  an  hour  in  the  acting.     Then,  towards  the  close 


20  WILLIAM    CONGREVE 

of  Act  IV,  the  main  intrigue  is  resumed,  Mellefont 
surprises  Maskwell  and  Lady  Touchwood  together, 
Maskwell  escapes,  Lady  Touchwood  grovels  at  Melle- 
font's  feet,  until  Lord  Touchwood,  brought  thither  by 
Maskwell,  appears  upon  the  scene,  when  she  turns 
the  tables  by  accusing  Mellefont  of  an  infamous 
attempt  upon  her.  This  is  undoubtedly  a  strong 
scene  of  what  we  should  now  call  emotional  drama, 
and  might  have  made  the  success  of  the  play  had  it 
been  followed  by  a  brief  and  effective  last  act.  Un- 
fortunately the  last  act  merely  carried  to  a  pitch  of 
extravagance  the  imbecile  audacity  of  Maskwell's 
double-dealing,  and  proved  Congreve  incapable  of 
attaining  that  clearness-in-complexity  which  is  in- 
dispensable in  a  play  of  intrigue. 

At  the  very  beginning  of  Act  V,  we  find  a  touch 
which  betrays  the  weakness  of  the  author's  method. 
Maskwell  congratulates  Lady  Touchwood  on  her 
triumph  over  Mellefont,  but  says  nothing  to  show 
that  it  was  he  himself,  and  not  chance,  that  brought 
Lord  Touchwood  on  the  scene.  Then  in  a  soliloquy 
he  says,  "I  durst  not  own  my  introducing  my  lord, 
...  for  she  would  have  suspected  a  design  which  I 
should  have  been  puzzled  to  excuse." 

Now  it  is  and  must  ever  remain  an  enigma  what 
Maskwell  here  has  in  mind.  There  are  two  or  three 
possible  solutions,  but  none  convincing;  and  none, 
certainly,  that  would  come  home  to  the  instant  ap- 
prehension of  a  spectator  in  the  theatre.  Even  if  one 
could  produce  an  argument  to  show  that  the  policy 
of  silence  was  certainly  the  right  one  from  Maskwell's 
point  of  view,  or  certainly  the  one  which  Maskwell 
would  have  adopted,  the  very  fact  that  such  an  argu- 


WILLIAM   CONGREVE  21 

ment  was  needed  would  prove  the  author  to  have 
become  involved  in  a  tangle  of  circumstance  which 
could  only  baffle  and  fatigue  the  mind  of  an  audience. 
Moreover,  the  best  conceivable  reasons  for  Mask- 
well's  silence  to  Lady  Touchwood  are  cancelled  by 
the  fact  that  a  chance  word  from  Lord  Touchwood 
to  his  wife  might,  and  in  all  probability  would,  upset 
his  calculations.  The  husband  and  wife  could  not 
but  discuss  the  incident;  and  it  is  a  hundred  chances 
to  one  that  something  would  be  said  to  reveal  the  fact 
of  Maskwell's  intervention.  Lady  Touchwood  would 
then  say  to  herself,  "Why  did  he  conceal  this  from 
me?"  —  and  she  would  necessarily  conclude  that  he 
was  playing  some  double  game  with  her.  I  dwell 
upon  this  trifling  matter  because  it  affords  a  charac- 
teristic instance  of  the  dangers  of  over-complexity. 

Having  explained,  or  rather  failed  to  explain,  in 
soliloquy,  why  he  kept  Lady  Touchwood  in  the  dark, 
Maskwell  sees  Lord  Touchwood  approaching,  and 
holds  this  a  good  opportunity  to  keep  on  soliloquizing 
and  let  his  Lordship  overhear  a  confession  of  his  love 
for  Cynthia.  We  know  from  Congreve's  Epistle 
Dedicatory  that  one  of  the  features  of  his  play  on  which 
criticism  fastened  was  his  use  of  soliloquy;  and  Mr. 
Gosse  represents  that  this  was  a  "return  to  an  old 
conventional  practice"  which  "the  English  comic 
writers  had  carefully  eschewed."  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  there  are  a  good  many  soliloquies  in  Etheredge, 
in  Wycherley,  and  in  Shadwell.  Still,  the  tendency 
of  the  past  thirty  years  had  no  doubt  been  to  adopt 
the  French  device  of  the  confidant  in  preference  to 
the  Elizabethan  convention  of  the  soliloquy;  so  that, 
in  making  Maskwell  unpack  his  heart  like  lago  or 


22  WILLIAM    CONGREVE 

Richard  III,  Congreve  was,  unconsciously  it  would 
seem,*  reverting  to  a  somewhat  antiquated  form  of 
technic. 

We  need  not  dwell  on  his  arguments  in  its  defence : 
they  are  commonplaces  whose  force  depends  upon  the 
question  whether  we  do  or  do  not  aim  at  a  complete 
illusion  of  reality;  and,  indeed,  it  is  hard  to  see  why 
audiences  who  habitually  accepted  the  "aside"  (a 
far  more  crying  sin  against  illusion)  should  have 
boggled  at  the  soliloquy,  as  such.  But  Congreve 
oddly  omits  to  notice  a  very  obvious  distinction:  the 
difference  between  the  soliloquy  pure  and  simple 
and  the  overheard  soliloquy.  The  gist  of  his  defence 
is  that  "  we  ought  not  to  imagine  that  this  man  either 
talks  to  us  or  to  himself ;  he  is- only  thinking."  Very 
well;  but  how  comes  it,  then,  that  Lord  Touchwood- 
overhears  Maskwell's  thoughts  ?  It  may  be  said  that 
Mask  well  intends  that  he  should  do  so,  and  deliber- 
ately speaks  for  that  purpose.  But  this  plea  is  of  no 
avail;  for  if  we  admit,  as  Congreve  starts  by  admit- 
ting, that  "for  a  man  to  talk  to  himself  appears  ab- 
surd and  unnatural,"  how  comes  it  that  the  absurdity 
and  unnaturalness  do  not  strike  Lord  Touchwood? 
The  truth  is  that  the  overheard  soliloquy,  whether  the 
speaker  be,  or  be  not,  aware  of  the  listener's  presence, 
is  an  outrage  on  probability  of  a  wholly  different  order 
from  the  soliloquy  proper,  if  I  may  so  distinguish  it. 
The  true  defence  of  the  soliloquy  is  that  which  Con- 
greve alleges:  the  character  is  not  supposed  to  be 
really  speaking:  it  is  the  audience  which  becomes, 

'  He  says  that  the  objection  to  the  soliloquy  "  does  not  relate  in 
particular  to  this  play,  but  to  all  or  most  that  ever  have  been 
written." 


WILLIAM   CONGREVE  23 

for  the  nonce,  a  company  of  thought-readers,  to  whom 
his  brain  is  supernormally  transparent.  But  when 
another  person  on  the  stage  hears  him,  the  assumption 
that  he  is  merely  thinking  breaks  down,  and  all  plausi- 
bility at  once  vanishes.  The  convention,  in  short, 
is  tolerable  only  as  between  the  actor  and  the  audi- 
ence. When  another  actor  overhears  the  imaginary 
utterance,  it  becomes  no  longer  imaginary,  but  actual 
—  and  impossible. 

We  may  pretty  fairly  conclude,  I  think,  that  even  if 
the  first-night  audience  did  not  clearly  realize  it, 
their  objection  was  much  less  to  Maskwell's  soliloquies 
in  general  than  to  his  overheard  soliloquy  in  particular. 
The  device  might  be  passable  enough  in  such  a  purely 
comic  scene  as  that  between  Sharper  and  Sir  Joseph 
Wittol  in  The  Old  Bachelor ;  but  as  a  serious  expedi- 
ent at  a  critical  point  in  a  serious  play  it  was  certainly 
very  dangerous. 

To  resume  our  analysis:  Maskwell,  having  dis- 
closed to  Lord  Touchwood  his  love  for  Cynthia,  and 
secured  that  nobleman's  enthusiastic  suppprt  for  his 
suit,  points  out  to  us,  in  another  soliloquy,  that  he 
has  got  himself  into  an  extremely  precarious  situation; 
for  if  Lady  Touchwood  should  learn  of  his  design 
"Her  fury  would  spare  nothing,  though  she  involved 
herself  in  ruin."  This  is  a  very  just  apprehension, 
and  might  have  occurred  to  him  earlier;  but  it  is  one 
of  the  constant  characteristics  of  the  melodramatic 
villain  to  be  at  once  the  most  calculating  and  the  most 
foolhardy  of  men. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  first  thing  Lord  Touchwood 
does  is  (quite  naturally)  to  tell  Lady  Touchwood  of 
Maskwell's  design  upon  Cynthia;  and  it  is  one  of  the 


24  WILLIAM    CONGREVE 

innumerable  constructive  errors  of  the  play  that, 
though  her  Ladyship  is  duly  incensed,  her  fury  is  not 
the  main  factor  in  Maskvvell's  final  discomfiture. 
From  this  point  onward,  indeed,  the  plot  becomes  so 
incredibly  complicated  that  one  despairs  of  making  it 
comprehensible.  Maskwell  tells  Mellefont  that  Lord 
Touchwood,  at  Lady  Touchwood's  suggestion,  is 
planning  his  (Maskwell' s)  marriage  with  Cynthia, 
so  that  Mcllefont's  only  chance  is  promptly  to  elope 
with  her.  But  they  cannot  elope  (it  would  appear) 
save  in  Lord  Touchwood's  coach  and  six;  and  how 
are  they  to  obtain  the  use  of  it  ?  For  this,  too.  Mask- 
well  has  his  scheme.  He  will  tell  Lord  Touchwood 
of  the  proposed  elopement,  declaring  that,  at  the  last 
moment,  by  an  ultimate  masterpiece  of  subtlety,  he 
proposes  to  substitute  himself  for  Mellefont,  and 
marry  Cynthia  in  spite  of  herself.  This  is,  of  course, 
his  real  design,  though  to  Mellefont  he  represents  it 
as  a  plan  for  hoodwinking  Lord  Touchwood.  To 
prevent  all  danger  of  discovery,  Mellefont  is  to  dis- 
guise himself  as  the  Touchwoods'  domestic  chaplain; 
and  Maskwell  contrives  that  Mellefont  shall  be 
hindered  in  putting  on  his  disguise,  and  that  the  real 
*'Levite,"  Mr.  Saygrace,  shall  drive  away  with  him 
(Maskwell)  and  Cynthia,  who  shall  take  Saygrace 
for  Mellefont  in  clerical  costume. 

Is  it  possible  to  imagine  a  more  inextricable  tangle  ? 
No  human  brain  can  keep  the  threads  clear  for  two 
consecutive  minutes.  And,  after  all,  even  if  the  plot 
should  succeed,  one  does  not  see  how  Maskwell  is 
to  make  Cynthia  marry  him.  To  do  her  justice,  she 
is  not  a  young  lady  who  is  likely  to  be  terrorized  into 
consent.     In  point  of  fact,  the  whole  intrigue  comes 


WILLIAM   CONGREVE  2$ 

to  nothing,  not  through  its  inherent  impossibihty,  but 
through  the  chance  that  Lord  Touchwood  happens  to 
overhear  a  violent  scene  between  Lady  Touchwood  and 
Maskwell,  which  opens  his  eyes  to  their  relations  and 
to  the  villain's  character.  It  is  worth  noting  that  even 
at  this  last  moment  Maskwell  succeeds  in  throwing 
dust  in  Lady  Touchwood's  eyes  by  pretending  that 
all  his  plotting  has  really  been  directed  to  the  advance- 
ment of  her  designs  upon  Mellefont. 

What  wonder  if  audiences  were  at  first  baffled  and 
fatigued  by  the  effort  to  follow  the  outs  and  ins  of  this 
labyrinthine  plot!  Well  may  Lord  Touchwood  say 
(Act  V,  Scene  iv) :  "I  am  confounded  when  I  look 
back,  and  want  a  clue  to  guide  me  through  the  various 
mazes  of  unheard-of  treachery."  The  public  no 
doubt  echoed  his  sentiment ;  and  it  was,  I  cannot  but 
think,  this  sense  of  bewilderment  that  was  mainly 
accountable  for  the  cold  reception  of  the  comedy. 
There  was  no  professional  criticism  in  those  days; 
which  means  that  playgoers  were  not  accustomed  to 
attempt  any  clear  analysis  of  the  effect  produced  upon 
them  by  a  given  work  of  art.'  Doubtless,  then,  they 
were  even  more  apt  than  playgoers  of  to-day  to  mis- 
take, or  remain  unconscious  of,  the  true  grounds  of 
their  sensations  and  judgements. 

But,  while  conventions,  prejudices,  and  ideals 
change,  the  psychological  conditions  of  attention  and 
comprehension  remain  much  the  same  from  age  to  age ; 
wherefore  we  are  justified  in  arguing,  on  the  purely 
technical  plane,  from  the  sensations  of  an  audience 
of  to-day  to  those  of  an  audience  of  two  centuries  ago. 
Other  than  purely  technical  considerations  may  have 
affected  the  fortunes  of  the  play;    perhaps  the  char- 


26  WILLIAM    CONGREVE 

acter  of  Lady  Touchwood  was  felt  to  be  too  tragic  for 
a  play  that  was  nominally  a  comedy;  perhaps,  even 
in  the  days  before  Collier's  Short  View,  the  ladies 
did  not  much  like  to  see  three  women  of  quality  (not 
mere  citizens'  wives)  represented  as  so  many  adul- 
teresses. But  we  may  feel  pretty  confident,  I  think, 
that  the  main  reason  of  the  public  coolness  was  the 
inextricable  complexity  of  Maskwell's  machinations, 
combined  with  the  total  lack  of  skill  displayed  in  lay- 
ing down  the  lines  and  marking  the  rhythm,  so  to  speak, 
of  the  action.  Congreve  had  no  idea  how  to  seize  the 
attention   and  sustain   the   interest  of  his  audience. 

Yet  there  was  much  that  was  attractive  in  the  play. 
Lady  Touchwood  was  a  splendidly  vivid  creation,  and 
the  other  two  ladies  were  amusing  and  nicely  differ- 
entiated studies.  Cynthia  was  a  pleasant  and  un- 
affected young  woman,  and  Brisk  an  agreeably 
diverting  fribble.  The  dialogue  of  the  lighter  pas- 
sages, too,  had  all  Congreve's  brilliancy;  so  that  it 
is  not  surprising  that  after  the  first  few  performances 
the  comedy  (as  Dryden  said)  "gained  ground  daily." 
The  approval  of  Queen  Mary  came  to  its  aid,  and  it 
soon  established  itself  as  a  stock  piece. 

Experience  has  shown  again  and  again  that  if  a 
play  has  sufficient  general  vitality  to  survive  technical 
defects  of  the  kind  I  have  pointed  out,  they  are  less 
and  less  felt  as  time  goes  on,  until  they  come  to  be 
accepted  as  matters  of  course.  The  perceptions  of 
later  audiences  are  never  quite  so  alert,  or  their  nerves 
so  highly  strung,  as  those  of  the  public  which  sees  a 
play  in  its  novelty.  When  it  has  once  established  its 
position,  people  come  to  it  prepared  to  enjoy  what  is 
good  and  endure  or  ignore  the  rest.     Excellence  of 


WILLIAM    CONGREVE  27 

character-drawing,  in  particular,  will  often  enable  a 
l;lay  to  live  down  \ery  grave  defects  of  plot.  It  is 
not  surprising,  then,  that  The  Double-Dealer  should 
have  held  the  stage  during  the  whole  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  Fourteen  revivals  are  indexed  in  Genest, 
the  last  in  1802. 

When  we  pass  to  Love  for  Love,  we  find  an  action 
far  better  knit  than  that  of  The  Old  Bachelor  and  in- 
finitely less  involved  than  that  of  The  Double-Dealer. 
Put  to  the  test  of  narration,  tiie  story  appears,  not  very 
probable  indeed,  but  fairly  simple  and  coherent.  Val- 
entine Legend  is  deeply  in  love  with  an  heiress  named 
Angelica,  who,  out  of  sheer  contrariety  as  it  would 
seem,  affects  indifference  towards  him.  In  his  de- 
pression he  runs  into  extravagance,  and  incurs  the 
resentment  of  his  father,  Sir  Sampson  Legend,  who 
offers  to  pay  his  debts  on  condition  that  he  will  sign 
a  deed  enabling  Sir  Sampson  to  leave  all  his  property 
to  his  younger  son  Ben,  a  sailor.  Valentine  agrees, 
and  receives  the  four  thousand  pounds  which  his 
father  has  promised  him ;  but  when  it  comes  to  carry- 
ing out  his  promise  of  breaking  the  entail,  he  pretends 
to  be  insane,  and  unfit  to  execute  any  legal  document. 

Meanwhile,  Ben  has  come  home  from  sea,  and  Sir 
Sampson  has  arranged  for  him  a  marriage  with  Miss 
Prue,  Angelica's  cousin,  the  ignorant,  hoydenish 
daughter  of  old  Foresight,  an  astrological  monomaniac. 
Prue,  however,  is  so  enraptured  with  a  scented  fop. 
Tattle,  that  she  will  have  nothing  to  say  to  the  rough 
and  boisterous  tarpaulin,  Ben;  while  Mrs.  Foresight's 
sister,  the  too  aptly  named  Mrs.  Frail,  throws  herself 
at  Ben's  head  and  almost  carries  him  off.  When  she 
learns,  however,  that,  owing  to  Valentine's  madness, 


28  WILLIAM   CONGREVE 

it  is  doubtful  whether  Ben  will  be  his  father's  heir, 
she  at  once  cools  towards  him,  and  plots  with  Valen- 
tine's man,  Jeremy,  to  induce  his  crazy  master  to 
marry  her,  mistaking  her  for  Angelica.  Tattle, 
meanwhile,  sees  in  Valentine's  affliction  an  opportu- 
nity to  make  love  to  Angelica ;  and  Jeremy  arranges  one 
of  those  amazing  masked  marriages,  so  dear  to 
playwrights  and  audiences  of  the  period,  whereby 
Tattle  marries  Frail,  mistaking  her  for  Angelica,  and 
Frail  marries  Tattle,  mistaking  him  for  Valentine. 
Sir  Sampson,  baffled  by  Valentine's  madness  and  Ben's 
refusal  to  marry  Prue,  thinks  of  marrying  Angelica 
himself,  and  she  feigns  to  consent.  On  learning  this 
Valentine  returns  to  his  senses,  and  offers  to  fulfil 
his  promise  of  signing  away  his  inheritance;  where- 
upon Angelica  at  last  confesses  her  love  for  him,  and 
the  comedy  is  at  an  end. 

This  is  a  very  trivial  and  poorly  invented  story, 
running  into  sheer  conventional  extravagance  in  the 
marriage  of  Tattle  and  Mrs.  Frail.  But,  such  as  it 
is,  it  possesses  some  approach  to  unity.  All  the  parts 
are  interdependent,  except  one  slight  episode  which  I 
have  not  mentioned :  the  inevitable  adultery,  between 
Valentine's  friend  Scandal  and  Mrs.  Foresight.  It 
is,  then,  much  more  of  an  ordered  structure  than  the 
plot  of  The  Old  Bachelor,  and  much  less  of  a  bewilder- 
ing tangle  than  the  plot  of  The  Double -Dealer.  But 
its  merit  is  mainly  extrinsic,  in  that  it  affords  ample 
and  unencumbered  scope  for  the  character-drawing 
and  dialogue  wherein  lay  Congreve's  real  strength. 
In  The  Double-Dealer  a  large  part  of  the  scanty 
time  at  the  playwright's  command  was  given  up  to  the 
mere  mechanism  of  the  intrigue;    in  Love  for  Love 


WILLIAM   CONGREVE  29 

there  is  no  more  intrigue  than  is  necessary  to  keep 
the  personages  in  motion,  and  exhibit  their  characters 
in  divers  aspects.  And  the  characters  themselves 
have  the  merit  (from  the  point  of  view  of  popular  ac- 
ceptance) of  being  familiar  and  readily  comprehen- 
sible, yet  drawn  with  a  vividness  which  imparts  to 
them  an  air  of  novelty. 

We  have,  first,  the  indispensable  two  wits  and 
the  butt  (or  half-wit)  who  form  the  nucleus  of  almost 
every  comedy  of  the  period.  In  The  Old  Bachelor, 
the  wits  are  Vainlove  and  Belmour,  and  the  butt 
(of  a  somewhat  unusual  type)  is  Heartwell;  in  The 
Double-Dealer ,  the  wits  are  Mellefont  and  Careless, 
the  butt  Brisk;  in  The  Way  of  the  World,  the 
wits  are  Mirabell  and  Fainall,  the  butt  Witwoud 
(with  Petulant  as  his  understudy) ;  here  the  wits 
are  Valentine  and  Scandal,  the  butt  Tattle.  One 
knows  not  which  to  admire  the  most :  the  deli- 
cate differentiation  of  such  characters  as  Vainlove, 
Valentine,  and  Mirabell,  Brisk,  Tattle,  and  Witwoud, 
or  the  patience  of  the  audiences  who  did  not  find 
such  established  types,  however  subtly  differentiated, 
intolerably  monotonous.  In  the  present  instance, 
however,  Valentine's  assumed  madness  gave  his 
character  a  certain  external  novelty  which  was  no 
doubt  appreciated.  Then  we  have  in  Sir  Sampson 
Legend  an  extremely  spirited  variant  of  the  "heavy 
father"  type,  which  was,  perhaps,  less  hackneyed  in 
Congreve's  time  than  one  is  apt  to  imagine.  It  de- 
scended, indeed,  from  the  classic  comedy,  and  is  fa- 
miliar in  Moliere;  but  I  do  not  find  that  it  had  hitherto 
been  much  employed  on  the  Restoration  stage.  Sir 
Sampson  is  the  ancestor  of  a  long  line,  but  does  not 


30  WILLIAM    CONGREVE 

seem  to  have  had  many  noted  predecessors  in  the 
plays  of  his  own  period.  Foresight,  again,  is  a  strongly- 
drawn  eccentric,  who  might  have  walked  out  of  a 
play  of  Jonson's.  The  sailor,  Ben,  was  at  once  the 
most  novel  character  in  the  play  and  its  greatest  at- 
traction. The  trait  on  which  Lamb  commented  — 
his  forgetfulness  of  the  death  of  "brother  Dick"  — 
is  a  touch  of  nature  worth  a  score  of  brilliant  repartees. 
Mrs.  Foresight  and  Mrs.  Frail  are  commonplace  types  of 
middle-class  femininity,  as  the  comedy  of  the  day  was 
pleased  to  represent  it;  Miss  Prue  is  one  of  the  hor- 
ribly debased  descendants  of  MoHere's  Agnes,  through 
Wycherley's  Margery,  who  are  popular  to  this  day 
with  a  certain  order  of  playwrights  and  audiences; 
and  Angelica  is  a  character,  not  without  a  certain 
chilly  charm,  but  so  enigmatic  that  no  two  critics 
interpret  her  in  quite  the  same  way.  Add  to  these  a 
witty  valet  and  a  coarsely  comic  nurse,  and  we  have 
such  a  gallery,  if  not  of  great  characters,  at  any  rate 
of  strongly-marked  acting  parts,  as  could  not  but  en- 
sure the  success  of  the  play,  in  the  absence  of  any 
good  reason  to  the  contrary.  As  we  have  seen, 
then,  that  the  plot  was  clear  and  simple,  the  action 
coherent  and  continuous,  there  is  nothing  to  surprise 
us  in  the  instantaneous  triumph  of  Love  for  Love. 

The  comparative  failure  of  The  Way  of  the  World 
may  seem  to  present  a  far  more  difificult  problem; 
but  here,  too,  I  think  that  technical  considerations 
amply  account  for  the  initial  coolness  it  had  to  over- 
come. Undeterred  by  his  experience  in  The  Double- 
Dealer,  Congreve  once  more  embarked  on  a  compli- 
cated plot;  and  once  more  he  put  a  fatiguing  strain 
on  the  attention  of  the  audience. 


WILLIAM    CONCREVE  3 1 

Here  again  we  have  to  master  a  complex  set  of  rela- 
tionships, legal  and  illicit.  Millamant  is  Lady  Wish- 
fort's  niece,  and  half  her  fortune  is  dependent  on  her 
aunt's  consent  to  her  marriage.  Mrs.  Fainall  is 
Lady  Wishfort's  daughter,  was  a  widow  before  she 
married  Fainall,  and  is  Mirabell's  ex-mistress.  Mrs. 
Marwood  is  Fainall's  present  mistress,  and  is  in  love 
with  Mirabell.  Sir  Wilfull  Witwoud  is  Lady  Wishfort  's 
nc])hew,  and  half-brother  to  Tony  Witwoud;  Mirabell 
has  an  uncle,  Sir  Rowland,^  personated  by  his  valet 
Waitwell;  and  Waitwcll  is  secretly  married  to  Lady 
Wishfort's  maid,  Foible.  This  marriage,  by  way  of 
keeping  the  audience  in  something  of  a  fog  from  the 
first,  is  announced  in  the  scene  between  Mirabell  and 
the  footman  in  Act  I,  when  we  do  not  in  the  least 
know  who  are  the  parties  referred  to,  and  is  not  ex- 
plained until  wc  come  to  the  scene  between  Mirabell 
and  Mrs.  Fainall  in  the  middle  of  Act  IL 

That,  however,  is  a  trifle;  the  real  weakness  of  the 
play  lies  in  the  extreme  difliculty  of  bearing  in  mind, 
from  moment  to  moment,  the  motives  of  all  concerned. 
Mirabell's  plot  is,  it  would  seem,  to  cover  Lady  Wish- 
fort  with  ridicule  through  her  acceptance  of  the  false 
Sir  Rowland,  and  then,  as  a  condition  of  keeping  the 
affair  secret,  to  insist  on  her  consenting  to  his  marriage 
with  Millamant.  It  is  a  hazardous  experiment  at 
best;  one  would  think  it  probable  that  resentment 
might  only  make  her  doubly  resolute  to  oppose  the 
marriage.  But,  assuming  that  "Sir  Rowland's" 
success  would  mean  Mirabell's  success,  why  does  not 
Mrs.  Marwood,  when  she  overhears  the  plot  in  Act 

'  Tt  is  not  quite  clear  whether  Mirabell  really  possesses  such  a 
relative  or  whether  he  is  invented  for  the  nonce. 


32  WILLIAM    CONGREVE 

III,  instantly  put  Lady  Wishfort  on  her  guard  ?  She 
knows  that  her  lover,  Fainall,  is  bent  on  having 
his  wife's  fortune  augmented  by  the  six  thousand 
pounds  of  Millamant's  fortune  which  will  be  forfeited 
if  Millamant  marries  without  Lady  Wishfort's  con- 
sent; yet  she  (Marwood)  holds  her  peace  until  the 
"Sir  Rowland"  plot  is  on  the  verge  of  success,  and 
then  clumsily  discloses  it  in  a  written  denunciation 
which  Foible's  resourcefulness  parries  and  turns  to 
the  advantage  of  the  plotters  ! 

There  is  really  no  good  reason  for  this  tardiness; 
Mrs.  Marwood  suffers  the  plot  to  proceed  simply 
because,  if  she  did  not,  the  author  would  be  balked 
of  his  most  effective  scenes ;  and  that  was  not  a  good 
reason  for  an  audience  of  1700,  any  more  than  for  an 
audience  of  to-day.  The  event,  indeed,  shows  the 
emptiness  of  Mirabell's  machination;  for  if  fear  of 
ridicule  was  to  bring  Lady  Wishfort  to  terms,  she 
might  surely  have  been  brought  to  terms  at  the  end 
of  Act  IV  —  greater  ridicule  she  could  not  well  have 
incurred.  As  it  is  (and  this  is  a  fault  of  art),  she 
learns  the  truth  in  the  interval  after  Act  IV,  and 
is  disclosed  to  us,  in  the  first  scene  of  Act  V,  at  the 
height  of  exasperation. 

The  scenes  that  ensue  probably  determined  the 
ill-fortune  of  the  play,  for  they  are  involved,  melo- 
dramatic, and  tedious.^  Indeed,  it  is  practically  a 
new  intrigue  on  which  our  attention  is  centred.  Fain- 
all's  bullying  attempt  to  levy  blackmail  on  his  wife 
and  her  mother,  by  the  threat  of  publishing  his  own 
dishonour,  is  at  once  displeasing  and  uninteresting; 

'  I  speak  of  their  eff-ct  not  on  speculation  alone,  for  I  saw  the 
play  acted  in  London  in  1904. 


WILLIAM   CONGREVE  33 

and  when  he  is  baffled  by  the  production  of  a  deed 
conveying  the  whole  of  Mrs.  Fainall's  fortune  to  Mira- 
bel! in  trust,  we  feel  that,  even  if  the  device  be  defen- 
sible from  the  legal  point  of  view,  it  is  dramatically 
of  the  feeblest.  The  tangle  of  intrigues  is  not  by  any 
means  so  inextricable  as  that  of  the  last  Act  of  The 
D ouhle- Dealer ;  but  it  is  mechanical,  sordid,  and  open 
to  criticism  at  a  dozen  points.  Though  the  audiences 
of  that  day  did  not  rebel  against  cynicism,  they  pre- 
ferred it  with  a  smack  of  sensuality;  whereas  in  this 
case  it  was  merely  intellectual  and  arid.  Once  more, 
in  fact,  Congreve  had  tried,  and  failed,  to  construct 
a  well-made  play. 

But  once  more,  and  much  more  decisively  than  in 
the  case  of  The  Double-Dealer,  the  abounding  merits 
of  the  play  gradually  outweighed  its  defects,  and  es- 
tablished it  as  a  classic  of  the  stage.  Millamant  was 
by  far  the  most  delightful  and  vital  creation  of  the 
whole  school  of  comedy ;  and  Lady  Wishfort  was  the 
consummate  and  incomparable  incarnation  of  the 
amorous  old  woman  —  a  hideous  type,  but  always 
popular  with  audiences  of  somewhat  crass  sensibili- 
ties. It  has  been  suggested,  as  a  reason  for  the  ini- 
tial failure  of  the  play,  that  Lady  Wishfort  was  thought 
a  too  "  tragic  "  character.  This  I  cannot  for  a  moment 
beheve.  It  is  a  reading  of  modern  fastidiousness  into 
the  eighteenth-century  public,  and  a  fastidiousness, 
too,  which  many  modern  audiences  do  not  exhibit. 
Witwoud  was  the  pleasantest  of  Congreve's  fribbles, 
and  Sir  Wilfull  by  no  means  the  least  pleasant  of  the 
country  squires  who  abounded  in  the  comedy  of  tlie 
day.  Petulant  I  cannot  but  think  somewhat  of  an 
anachronism  —  an    EHzabethan    or    Jacobean    sur- 

CONGREVE  —  3 


34  WILLIAM   CONGREVE 

vival  —  and  one  wonders  whether  the  audience  may 
not  have  felt  that  one  drunken  man  was  enough  for  a 
single  evening's  entertainment.  The  servants,  on  the 
other  hand,  are  all  brilHant  acting  parts.  Mrs.  Fainall 
is  the  only  colourless  character  in  the  play.  Fainall, 
though  preternaturally  odious,  is  at  least  more  human 
than  Maskwell;  and  in  Mrs.  Marwood  we  have  a 
rather  effective  suggestion  of  a  dark,  passionate, 
sinister  nature.  The  comedy  held  its  own  on  the  stage 
until  1800,  and  has  been  revived  in  recent  years  (1904) 
by  Mr.  Philip  Carr's  Mermaid  Company  of  players. 
Love  for  Love,  on  the  other  hand,  was  currently  acted 
as  late  as  1825,  and  was  revived  by  Macready  at  Driiry 
Lane  in  1842. 

What  are  we  to  say,  now,  on  the  endless  question  of 
Congreve's  morality?  Mr.  G.  S.  Street,  in  an  in- 
genious essay,  has  advanced  a  dual  plea  for  his  hero. 
Delicacy  of  speech,  he  says,  is  a  convention  varying 
with  time  and  locality,  and  we  must  not  blame  Con- 
greve  for  speaking  the  language  of  his  age;  while  as 
for  the  alleged  cynicism  of  his  work,  it  is  inherent  in  the 
nature  of  satiric  comedy,  the  business  of  which  is  to 
paint  vice  and  folly,  not  to  sentimentalize  over  inno- 
cence and  virtue.  The  first  part  of  this  defence  may 
be  accepted,  with  an  important  reservation :  to  wit, 
that  Congreve's  grossness,  while  less  than  that  of  some 
of  his  contemporaries,  yet  went  beyond  what  was  con- 
ventionally admitted  among  decent  people,  and  out- 
raged even  the  lax  proprieties  of  the  period.  For 
instance,  no  conventions  that  ever  obtained  in  human 
society  can  excuse  the  rank  brutality  of  the  conver- 
sation between  Valentine   and   Scandal    in  Act   I   of 


WILLIAM    CONGREVE  35 

Love  for  Love.  As  for  the  plea  drawn  from  the 
nature  of  satiric  comedy  (Congreve's  own  plea,  by 
the  way),  it  cannot,  I  think,  be  maintained.  Satire 
involves  two  things  which  are  equally  lacking  in 
Congreve's  comedies:  a  standard,  expressed  or  im- 
plied, of  what  is  good,  and  a  certain  amount  of  in- 
dignation against  what  is  bad.  It  will  be  admitted, 
I  think,  that  no  suggestion  of  any  standard  of  conduct 
is  to  be  found  in  these  plays.  In  each  of  them,  it  is 
true,  we  see  a  young  woman  —  Araminta,  Cynthia, 
Angelica,  Millamant  ^  —  whose  "virtue"  is  as  yet 
unassailed,  and  for  whom  the  honour  of  marrying  the 
hero  is  therefore  reserved.  But  in  each  case  she 
moves  with  smiling  indilTerence  through  the  rout  of 
intrigue  and  debauchery  around  her,  never  dreaming 
of  even  the  gentlest  protest  against  the  vices  of  her 
lover  or  of  any  one  else.  Nothing  could  be  less  like 
the  Lady  in  Comus  than  such  a  heroine  as  Angelica  or 
Millamant;  for  these  ladies  demand  nothing  better 
than  to  marry  into  the  herd.  Their  presence  removes, 
indeed,  the  last  semblance  of  justification  for  the  plea 
that  impartial  satire  was  the  author's  aim.  They  are 
there,  with  their  virtue  (such  as  it  is)  intact,  in  order 
that  the  audience  may  be  spared  the  pain  of  seeing 
the  hero  marry  an  already  profligate  woman;  and 
the  fact  that  a  pure  woman  is  carefully  reserved  for 
him  proves  beyond  a  doubt  that  the  hero,  Vainlove, 
Mellefont,  Valentine,  or  Mirabell,  is  intended  to  com- 
mand the  sympathy  of  the  audience. 

Thus  it  is  false  to  allege  that  sympathy  is  altogether 
excluded  from  this  world.  We  are  as  plainly  as  pos- 
sible invited  to  admire  this  group  of  men,  of  whom 

'  In  short,  the  Braccgirdlc  part. 


36  WILLIAM    CONGREVE 

Mellefont  alone  is  not  a  manifest  libertine,  while  even 
he  does  his  best  to  further  Careless's  designs  on  Lady 
Plyant.  Jeremy  Collier's  remarks  on  Valentine  are 
scarcely  exaggerated  and  may  apply  to  the  whole 
group.  "Valentine  in  Love  for  Love,'^  he  says,  "is 
(if  I  may  so  call  him)  the  hero  of  the  play ;  this  spark 
the  poet  would  pass  for  a  person  of  virtue,  but  he  speaks 
too  late.  'Tis  true  he  was  hearty  in  his  affection 
for  Angelica.  Now  without  question  to  be  in  love 
with  a  fine  lady  of  thirty  thousand  pounds  is  a  great 
virtue !  But  then,  abating  this  single  commenda- 
tion, Valentine  is  altogether  composed  of  vice.  He 
is  a  prodigal  debauchee,  unnatural  and  profane, 
obscene,  saucy,  and  undutiful;  and  yet  this  libertine 
is  crowned  for  the  man  of  merit,  has  his  wishes  thrown 
into  his  lap,  and  makes  the  happy  exit." 

It  is  noteworthy  that  these  heroes,  while  a  thousand 
miles  from  the  smallest  pretension  to  virtue,  have  not 
even  any  conventional  standard  of  honour.  I  do  not 
remember  that  the  expression  "a  man  of  honour," 
or  any  equivalent,  occurs  once  in  Congreve's  plays. 
No  line  is  drawn  at  which  debauchery  and  fraud 
ought  to  cease.  The  character  of  Tattle  shows  that 
there  is  a  certain  prejudice  against  the  man  who  brags 
of  his  amours ;  but  even  this  enormity  is  regarded  as  a 
matter  for  ridicule,  not  for  indignation.  The  social 
code  of  these  fine  gentlemen  contains  no  provision 
for  "cutting"  a  man  or  sending  him  to  Coventry. 
There  is,  indeed,  no  social  code,  but  a  state  of  utter 
lawlessness.  Swords  are  worn,  and  are  once  or 
twice  drawh  in  the  rage  of  baffled  villainy,  but  never  in 
vindication  either  of  a  man's  honour  or  of  a  woman's. 
The  duel,  that  overworked  device  of  earlier  and  later 


WILLIAM   CONGREVE  37 

drama,  is  practically  unknown  to  Restoration  comedy. 
There  is  perhaps  no  completer  proof  of  its  moral 
anarchy  than  the  fact  that  even  those  prejudices 
were  in  abeyance  which  involve   an   appeal   to  the 

sword. 

Congrcvc  regards  life,  as  I  have  more  than  once 
said   above,   from  a  standpoint   of  complete  ethical 
indifference;    and  it  is  in  moods  of  indifference  that 
we  rehsh  his  comedies.     In  most  of  us  such  moods 
occur;    nor  need  we  be  too  much  ashamed  of  them. 
This  is,  in  fact,  the  sum  and  substance  of  Lamb's 
famous  plea.     There  is  a  certain  refreshment  in  an 
imaginary  escape,  once  in  a  while,  from  the  trammels 
of  duty  and  decency,  and  an  excursion  into  a  realm 
in  which,  as  there  is  no  virtue  save  wit,  there  is  no 
wickedness  save  stupidity.      That  is  a  good  defence 
of  Congreve,   regarded   retrospectively  as   a  literary 
phenomenon ;  it  was,  or  would  ha\'e  been,  a  very  bad 
defence  in  days  when  each  of  his  comedies  was  an 
interpretation  of  life  and  a  social  action.     It  was  not, 
as  we  have  seen,  his  own  defence.     He  took  his  stand 
on  the  privileges,  or  rather  the  essential  nature,  of 
satire;    to  which   it   might  have  been   replied,   and 
ColHer  did  in  effect  reply,  that  the  essential  nature  of 
satire   precludes  indifference.     Satire   seeks,   even   if 
it  be  despairingly,  to  make  the  world  better;  whereas 
no  such   dream,  assuredly,  ever  flitted  through  Con- 
greve's  brain.     He  simply  obeyed  the  convention  of 
his  age  which  declared  that  the  business  of  comedy 
was  to  depict,  in  more  or  less  extravagant  situations, 
the  manners  and  customs  of  rogues  and  fools.      How 
purely    habitual,   how   independent    of    observation, 
was  this  view  of  life,  may  be  judged  from  the  fact 


38  WILLIAM    CONGREVE 

that  The  Old  Bachelor  (like  Farquhar's  Love  and  a 
Bottle  a  few  years  later)  was  written  by  a  raw  youth 
who  had  never  been  in  London  or  seen  anything  of 
the  society  he  was  supposed  to  depict.  Both  play- 
wrights afterwards  observed,  acutely  and  delicately; 
but  in  Congreve's  case,  at  any  rate,  observation  in  no 
way  altered  the  general  view  of  society  which  he  had 
formed  in  his  mind's  eye,  before  his  physical  eye  had 
come  within  two  hundred  miles  of  the  phenomenon 
to  be  recorded. 

Whence  came  the  convention  of  cynicism  that 
dominated  Restoration  comedy?  The  general  ac- 
count of  the  matter  is  that  given  by  Thackeray :  "  She 
was  a  disreputable,  daring,  laughing,  painted  French 
baggage,  that  Comic  Muse.  She  came  over  from 
the  Continent  with  Charles  at  the  Restoration  —  a 
wild,  dishevelled  Lais,  with  eyes  bright  with  wit  and 
wine."  I  think  it  is  high  time  that  this  off-hand  theory 
were  set  down  as  what  it  is  —  a  libel  on  France. 
France  no  doubt  gave  a  certain  tone  to  the  social 
corruption  of  the  period;  but  the  licence  of  the  stage 
did  not  come  from  France,  for  the  very  good  reason 
that  it  did  not  exist,  in  anything  hke  such  brutal  and 
brazen  forms,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Channel.  It 
was  the  old  semi-barbarous  coarseness  of  the  Jaco- 
bean comedy  that  broke  out  afresh  with  the  reopening 
of  the  theatres.  It  becomes,  perhaps,  in  one  or  two 
writers  —  in  Otway,  and  even  in  Dryden  —  some- 
what nastier  than  it  was  apt  to  be  in  the  Jacobeans. 
But  it  distresses  us  more  in  the  Restoration  drama- 
tists, I  believe,  not  because  it  is  really  grosser  but  be- 
cause the  manners  of  the  period  were  no  longer  frankly 
barbarous,  but  had  put  on  a  veneer  of  civiHzation. 


WILLIAM   CONGREVE  39 

In  the  Restoration  comedy,  the  EngHsh  theatre  was 
really  lagging  behind  the  age,  and  paying  for  the  ex- 
traordinary  rapidity   of   its   development    a   century 
earher,  in  the  spacious  but  still  semi-mediaeval  times 
of  great  Ehzabeth.     The  traditions  of  that  and  the 
succeeding  reign  were  too  firmly  established  to  keep 
pace  with  the  amelioration  of  manners  which  (what- 
ever   the    surface   corruption  of  the   Court)  was  all 
the  time  going  on.     It  has  too  often  been  England's 
fate  to  rush  ahead  of  other  nations  for  a  brief  spurt, 
and  then  to  drop  notably  behind,  and  in  this  case 
the  retardation  was  peculiarly  unfortunate ;    for  it 
widened  and  perpetuated  the  breach  between  puri- 
tanism  and  the  stage  which  has  been  such  a  disas- 
trous   factor    in    English   theatrical   history.      It   is 
because  serious  and  thoughtful  people  have  persist- 
ently held  aloof  from  the  theatre,  that  the  English 
drama  has  for  two  centuries  suffered  from  an  intel- 
lectual paralysis,  from  which  it  is  only  now  recovering. 
Congreve,  in  short,  with  all  his  wit  and  elegance  of 
style,  is  to  be  regarded   (with  Vanbrugh)  rather  as 
the  last  of  the  ancients  than  as  the  first  of  the  moderns. 
With  Steele  and  Farquhar,  as  I  have  tried  to  show  in 
my  introduction  to  the  latter  writer,^  a   new    spirit 
came  into  comedy  —  the  spirit  of  meliorism,  so  utterly 
foreign  to  Congreve.     Farquhar,  unfortunately,  died 
early,  and  Steele  devoted  most  of  his  energies  to  carry- 
ing out  that  differentiation  between  the  essay  and 
the  drama  for  which  the  time  was  now  ripe. 

In  Congreve  the  differentiation  was  still  very  im- 
perfect.    How  many  of  his  pages  are  Spectator  essays 
in  dialogue,  the  action,  and  even  the  development  of 
*  In  The  Mermaid  Series  of  English  dramatists. 


40  WILLIAM    CONGREVE 

individual  character,  standing  absolutely  still,  while 
the  personages  indulge  in  general  discussions  of  the 
follies  and  foibles  of  the  day !  When  Steele  and 
Addison  had  once  for  all  established  the  periodical 
essay  as  an  instrument  of  social  introspection,  it 
seemed  somehow  to  sap  the  vitality  of  comedy.  This 
was  doubtless  one  of  the  reasons  why  the  reviving 
moral  health  of  comedy,  in  Steele  and  Farquhar, 
could  not  prevent  its  intellectual  decline.  Soon  a 
still  more  formidable  competitor  came  into  the  field, 
in  the  shape  of  the  novel  of  manners;  and  its  do- 
minion lasted  for  a  century  and  a  half.  Save  for  one 
or  two  bright  flashes  in  the  late  eighteenth  century, 
the  English  drama  may  almost  be  said  to  have  been 
extinct  between  the  retirement  of  Congreve  and  our 
own  day.  In  Congreve  the  Elizabethan  impulse 
expired.  To-day  the  late- Victorian  impulse  is  gath- 
ering momentum  —  to  what  issues,  who  can  say? 


kxi: 


(X/yrv 


THE  DOUBLE-DEALER 

Intcrdum  tamen  et  vocem  Comoedia  toUit." 

—  HoRAT.  Ars.  Poet.  [93.] 

Syrus.   Huic  equidem  consilio  palmam  do:    hie   me  magnifice 
effero, 
Qui  vim  tantam  in  me,  et  potestatem  habeam  tantae  astutia;, 
Vera  dicendo  ut  eos  ambos  fallam."  — Terent.  Heauton.  [709.] 


THE   DOUBLE-DEALER 

The  Double-Dealer  was  first  acted  at  the  Theatre  Royal  in 
Drury  Lane  in  1694.  It  was  not  a  success  until  Dryden  called 
attention  to  its  merits.  It  later  enjoyed  a  considerable  degree 
of  popularity.  The  intricate  plot  is  Congreve's  own  invention, 
and  such,  too,  is  tlie  original  hero  Maskwell,  whose  novel 
method  is  to  deceive  bv  telling  the  truth. 


43 


COMMENDATORY  VERSES 

To  my  dear  Friend  Mr.  Congreve,  ow  Jiis  Comedy  called 
'' The  Double-Dealer'' 

Well,  then,  the  promised  hour  is  come  at  last; 

The  present  age  of  wit  obscures  the  past: 

Strong  were  our  sires,  and  as  they  fought  they  writ. 

Conquering  with  force  of  arms  and  dint  of  wit; 

Theirs  was  the  giant  race  before  the  flood; 

And  thus,  when  Charles  returned,  our  empire  stood. 

Like  Janus,  he  the  stubborn  soil  manured, 

With  rules  of  husbandry  the  rankness  cured: 

Tamed  us  to  manners,  when  the  stage  was  rude; 

And  boisterous  English  wit  with  art  endued.  lo 

Our  age  was  cultivated  thus  at  length; 

But  what  we  gained  in  skill  we  lost  in  strength. 

Our  builders  were  with  want  of  genius  cursed; 

The  second  temple  was  not  like  the  first:  ^ 

'Till  you,  the  best  Vitruvius,"  come  at  length. 

Our  beauties  equal,  but  excel  our  strength. 

Firm  Doric  pillars  found  your  solid  base,"^ 

The  fair  Corinthian  crowns  the  higher  space; 

Thus  all  below  is  strength,  and  all  above  is  grace. 

In  easy  dialogue  is  Fletcher's  praise,  20 

He  moved  the  mind,  but  had  not  power  to  raise. 

Great  Jonson  did  by  strength  of  judgement  please; 

Yet  doubling  Fletcher's  force,  he  wants  his  ease. 

In  differing  talents  both  adorned  their  age; 

n  A  superior  n  in  the  text  indicates  a  note  at  the  end  of  the 
volume. 

44 


THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  45 

One  for  the  study,  t'other  for  the  stage. 

But  both  to  Congreve  justly  shall  submit, 

One  matched  in  judgement,  both  o'ermatched  in  wit. 

In  him  all  beauties  of  this  age  we  see, 

Etheredge  his  courtship,  Southerne's  purity; 

The  satire,  wit,  and  strength  of  manly  Wycherley.        30 

All  this  in  blooming  youth  you  have  achieved; 

Nor  are  your  foiled  contemporaries  grieved; 

So  much  the  sweetness  of  your  manners  move, 

We  cannot  envy  you,  because  we  love. 

Fabius  might  joy  in  Scipio,  when  he  saw 

A  beardless  consul  made  against  the  law, 

And  join  his  suffrage  to  the  votes  of  Rome; 

Though  he  with  Hannibal  was  overcome. 

Thus  old  Romano  "  bowed  to  Raphael's  fame; 

And  scholar  to  the  youth  he  taught  became.  40 

Oh!  that  your  brows  my  laurel  had  sustained, 
Well  had  I  been  deposed  if  you  had  reigned! 
The  father  had  descended  for  the  son; 
For  only  you  are  lineal  to  the  throne. 
Thus  when  the  state  one  Edward  did  depose, 
A  greater  Edward  "  in  his  room  arose. 
But  now,  not  I,  but  poetry  is  cursed: 
For  Tom  the  second  reigns  like  Tom  the  first." 
But  let  'em  not  mistake  my  patron's  part, 
Nor  call  his  charity  their  own  desert.  50 

Yet  I  this  prophesy :  Thou  shalt  be  seen, 
(Though  with  some  short  parenthesis  between,) 
High  on  the  throne  of  wit;   and  seated  there, 
Not  mine  (that's  little)  but  thy  laurel  wear. 
Thy  first  attempt  an  early  promise  made," 
That  early  promise  this  has  more  than  paid; 
So  bold,  yet  so  judiciously  you  dare. 
That  your  least  praise  is  to  be  regular." 
Time,  place,  and  action,  may  with  pains  be  wrought, 
But  genius  must  be  born,  and  never  can  be  taught.      60 


46  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER 

This  is  your  portion,  this  your  native  store; 
Heaven,  that  but  once  was  prodigal  before. 
To  Shakespeare  gave  as  much;  she  could  not  give  him 
more. 

Maintain  your  post:  that's  all  the  fame  you  need; 
For  'tis  impossible  you  should  proceed. 
Already  I  am  worn  with  cares  and  age. 
And  just  abandoning  the  ungrateful  stage: 
Unprofitably  kept  at  Heaven's  expense, 
I  live  a  rent-charge  on  his  providence. 
But  you,  whom  every  Muse  and  Grace  adorn,  70 

Whom  I  foresee  to  better  fortune  born, 
Be  kind  to  my  remains;   and,  oh,  defend. 
Against  your  judgement,  your  departed  friend! 
Let  not  the  insulting  foe  my  fame  pursue, 
But  shade  those  laurels  which  descend  to  you: 
And  take  for  tribute  what  these  lines  express; 
You  merit  more,  nor  could  my  love  do  less. 

John  Dryden. 

To  the  Right  Honourable 
CHARLES   MONTAGUE, 
One  of  the  Lords  of  the  Treasury 
Sir, 

I  heartily  wish  that  this  play  were  as  perfect  as  I 
intended  it,  that  it  might  be  more  worthy  your  accept- 
ance and  that  my  dedication  of  it  to  you  might  be  more 
becoming  that  honour  and  esteem  which  I,  with  every- 
body who  is  so  fortunate  as  to  know  you,  have  for  you. 
It  had  your  countenance  when  yet  unknown;  and  now 
it  is  made  pubHc,  it  wants  your  protection. 

I  would  not  have  anybody  imagine  that  I  think  this 
play  without  its  faults,  for  I  am  conscious  of  several. 
I  confess  I  designed  (whatever  vanity  or  ambition  oc- 
casioned that  design)  to  have  written  a  true  and  regular 
comedy:    but  I  fpund  it  an  undertaking  which  put  me 


THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  47 

in  mind  of  —  Sudet  multiim ,  frustraque  ausus  idem.  And 
now,  to  make  amends  for  the  vanity  of  such  a  design, 
I  do  confess  both  the  attempt  and  the  imperfect  per- 
formance. Yet  I  must  take  the  boldness  to  say,  I  have 
not  miscarried  in  the  whole;  for  the  mechanical  part  of 
it  is  regular.  That  I  may  say  with  as  little  vanity,  as 
a  builder  may  say  he  has  built  a  house  according  to  the 
model  laid  down  before  him;  or  a  gardener  that  he  has 
set  his  flowers  in  a  knot  of  such  or  such  a  figure.  I 
designed  the  moral  first,  and  to  that  moral  I  invented 
the  fable,  and  do  not  know  that  I  have  borrowed  one 
hint  of  it  anywhere.  I  made  the  plot  as  strong  as  I 
could,  because  it  was  single;  and  I  made  it  single, 
because  I  would  avoid  confusion,  and  was  resolved  to 
preserve  the  three  unities  of  the  drama.  Sir,  this  dis- 
course is  very  impertinent  to  you,  whose  judgement  much 
better  can  discern  the  faults,  than  I  can  excuse  them; 
and  vv'hose  good  nature,  like  that  of  a  lover,  will  find  out 
those  hidden  beauties  (if  there  are  any  such)  which  it 
would  be  great  immodesty  for  me  to  discover.  I  think 
I  do  not  speak  improperly  when  I  call  j^ou  a  lover  of 
poetry;  for  it  is  very  well  known  she  has  been  a  very 
kind  mistress  to  you:  she  has  not  denied  you  the  last 
favour,  and  she  has  been  fruitful  to  you  in  a  most  beauti- 
ful issue.  —  If  I  break  off  abruptly  here,  I  hope  every- 
body will  understand  that  it  is  to  avoid  a  commendation, 
which,  as  it  is  your  due,  w^ould  be  most  easy  for  me  to 
pay,  and  too  troublesome  for  you  to  receive. 

I  have,  since  the  acting  of  this  play,  hearkened  after 
the  objections  which  have  been  made  to  it;  for  I  was 
conscious  where  a  true  critic  might  have  put  me  upon 
my  defence.  I  was  prepared  for  the  attack;  and  am 
pretty  confident  I  could  have  vindicated  some  parts, 
and  excused  others ;  and  where  there  were  any  plain  mis- 
carriages, I  would  most  ingenuously  have  confessed  them. 
But  I  have  not  heard  anything  said  sufficient  to  provoke 
an  answer.     That  which  looks  most  like  an  objection, 


48  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER 

does  not  relate  in  particular  to  this  play,  but  to  all  or 
most  that  ever  have  been  written;  and  that  is,  soliloquy. 
Therefore  I  will  answer  it,  not  only  for  my  own  sake,  but 
to  save  others  the  trouble,  to  whom  it  may  hereafter 
be  objected. 

I  grant,  that  for  a  man  to  talk  to  himself  appears 
absurd  and  unnatural;  and  indeed  it  is  so  in  most  cases; 
but  the  circumstances  which  may  attend  the  occasion 
make  great  alteration.  It  oftentimes  happens  to  a  man 
to  have  designs  which  require  him  to  himself,  and  in 
their  nature  cannot  admit  of  a  confidant.  Such,  for 
certain,  is  all  villainy;  and  other  less  mischievous 
intentions  may  be  very  improper  to  be  communicated 
to  a  second  person.  In  such  a  case,  therefore,  the  au- 
dience must  observe,  whether  the  person  upon  the  stage 
takes  any  notice  of  them  at  all,  or  no.*  For  if  he  sup- 
poses any  one  to  be  by  when  he  talks  to  himself,  it  is 
monstrous  and  ridiculous  to  the  last  degree.  Nay,  not 
only  in  this  case,  but  in  any  part  of  a  play,  if  there  is 
expressed  any  knowledge  of  an  audience,  it  is  insufferable. 
But  otherwise,  when  a  man  in  soliloquy  reasons  with  him- 
self, and  pros  and  cons,  and  weighs  all  his  designs,  we 
ought  not  to  imagine  that  this  man  either  talks  to  us  or  to 
himself;  he  is  only  thinking,  and  thinking  such  matter  as 
were  inexcusable  folly  in  him  to  speak.  But  because  we 
are  concealed  spectators  of  the  plot  in  agitation,  and  the 
poet  finds  it  necessary  to  let  us  know  the  whole  mystery 
of  his  contrivance,  he  is  willing  to  inform  us  of  this 
person's  thoughts;  and  to  that  end  is  forced  to  make 
use  of  the  expedient  of  speech,  no  other  better  way  being 
yet  invented  for  the  communication  of  thought. 

Another  very  wrong  objection  has  been  made  by  some, 
who  have  not  taken  leisure  to  distinguish  the  characters. 
The  hero  of  the  play,  as  they  are  pleased  to  call  him 
(meaning  Mellefont),  is  a  gull,  and  made  a  fool,  and 
cheated.  Is  every  man  a  gull  and  a  fool  that  is  deceived? 
At  that  rate  I  am  afraid  the  two  classes  of  men  will  be 


THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  49 

reduced  to  one,  and  the  knaves  themselves  be  at  a  loss  to 
justify  their  title:  but  if  an  open-hearted  honest  man, 
who  has  an  entire  confidence  in  one  whom  he  takes  to  be 
his  friend,  and  whom  he  has  obliged  to  be  so;  and  who 
(to  confirm  him  in  his  opinion)  in  all  appearance,  and 
upon  several  trials  has  been  so;  if  this  man  be  deceived 
by  the  treachery  of  the  other,  must  he  of  necessity  com- 
mence fool  immediately,  only  because  the  other  has 
proved  a  villain?  Aye,  but  there  was  caution  given  to 
i  Mellefont  in  the  first  Act  by  his  friend  Careless.  Of 
what  nature  was  that  caution?  Only  to  give  the  au- 
dience some  light  into  the  character  of  Maskwell,  before 
his  appearance;  and  not  to  convince  Mellefont  of  his 
treachery;  for  that  was  more  than  Careless  was  then 
able  to  do;  he  never  knew  Maskwell  guilty  of  any 
villainy;  he  was  only  a  sort  of  man  which  he  did  not 
like.  As  for  his  suspecting  his  familiarity  with  my 
Lady  Touchwood,  let  them  examine  the  answer  that 
Mellefont  makes  him,  and  compare  it  with  the  conduct  of 
Maskwell's  character  through  the  play. 

I  would  beg  them  again  to  look  into  the  character  of 
Maskwell,  before  they  accuse  Mellefont  of  weakness 
for  being  deceived  by  him.  For  upon  summing  up  the 
inquiry  into  this  objection,  it  may  be  found  they  have 
mistaken  cunning  in  one  character,  for  folly  in  another. 
But  there  is  one  thing  at  which  I  am  more  concerned 
than  all  the  false  criticisms  that  are  made  upon  me;  and 
that  is,  some  of  the  ladies  are  offended.  I  am  heartily 
sorry  for  it,  for  I  declare  I  would  rather  disoblige  all  the 
critics  in  the  world,  than  one  of  the  fair  sex.  They  are 
concerned  that  I  have  represented  some  women  vicious 
and  affected:  how  can  I  help  it?  It  is  the  business  of 
a  comic  poet  to  paint  the  vices  and  follies  of  humankind; 
and  there  are  but  two  sexes,  male  and  female,  men  and 
women,  which  have  a  title  to  humanity:  and  if  I  leave 
one-half  of  them  out,  the  work  will  be  imperfect.  I 
should  be  very  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  make  my  com- 

CONGRKVE  —  4 


50  I  tin.     JJUUt)i.t.-JJllALJl-K 

pliment  to  those  ladies  who  are  offended;  but  they  can 
no  more  expect  it  in  a  comedy,  than  to  be  tickled  by 
a  surgeon  when  he  is  letting  them  blood.  They  who  are 
virtuous  or  discreet  should  not  be  offended;  for  such 
characters  as  these  distinguish  them,  and  make  their 
beauties  more  shining  and  observed:  and  they  who  are 
of  the  other  kind,  may  nevertheless  pass  for  such,  by 
seeming  not  to  be  displeased,  or  touched  with  the  satire 
of  this  comedy.  Thus  have  they  also  wrongfully  ac- 
cused me  of  doing  them  a  prejudice,  when  I  have  in 
reality  done  them  a  service. 

You  will  pardon  me,  sir,  for  the  freedom  I  take  of 
making  answers  to  other  people,  in  an  epistle  which  ought 
wholly  to  be  sacred  to  you:  but  since  I  intend  the  play 
to  be  so  too,  I  hope  I  may  take  the  more  liberty  of 
justifying  it,  where  it  is  in  the  right. 

I  must  now,  sir,  declare  to  the  world  how  kind  you 
have  been  to  my  endeavours;  for  in  regard  of  what  was 
well  meant,  you  have  excused  what  was  ill  performed. 
I  beg  you  would  continue  the  same  method  in  your  ac- 
ceptance of  this  dedication.  I  know  no  other  way  of 
making  a  return  to  that  humanity  you  showed,  in  pro- 
tecting an  infant,  but  by  enrolling  it  in  your  service, 
now  that  it  is  of  age  and  come  into  the  world.  There- 
fore be  pleased  to  accept  of  this  as  an  acknowledgment 
of  the  favour  you  have  shown  me,  and  an  earnest  of 
the  real  service  and  gratitude  of,  sir,  your  most  obliged, 
humble  servant, 

WILLIAM   CONGREVE. 


PROLOGUE 

SPOKEN   BY   MRS.    BRACEGIRDLE  " 

Moors  have  this  way  (as  story  tells)  to  know 
Whether  their  brats  are  truly  got  or  no ; 
Into  the  sea  the  new-born  babe  is  thrown, 
There,  as  instinct  directs,  to  swim  or  drown, 
A  barbarous  device  to  try  if  spouse 
Has  kept  religiously  her  nuptial  vows. 

Such  are  the  trials  poets  make  of  plays: 
Only  they  trust  to  more  inconstant  seas; 
So  does  our  author  this  his  child  commit 
To  the  tempestuous  mercy  of  the  pit,  lo 

To  know  if  it  be  truly  born  of  wit. 

Critics,  avaunt!  for  you  are  fish  of  prey, 
And  feed,  like  sharks,  upon  an  infant  play. 
Be  every  monster  of  the  deep  away; 
Let's  a  fair  trial  have,  and  a  clear  sea. 

Let  Nature  work,  and  do  not  damn  too  soon, 
For  life  will  struggle  long  ere  it  sink  down; 
And  will  at  least  rise  thrice  before  it  drown. 
Let  us  consider,  had  it  been  our  fate. 
Thus  hardly  to  be  proved  legitimate !  20 

I  will  not  say,  we'd  all  in  danger  been, 
Were  each  to  suffer  for  his  mother's  sin; 
But,  by  my  troth,  I  cannot  avoid  thinking 
How  nearly  some  good  men  might  have  scaped  sinking. 
But  Heaven  be  praised  this  custom  is  confined 
Alone  to  the  offspring  of  the  Muses'  kind: 
Our  Christian  cuckolds  are  more  bent  to  pity; 
I  know  not  one  Moor  husband  in  the  city. 
I'  th'  good  man's  arms  the  chopping  bastard  thrives; 
For  he  thinks  all  his  own  that  is  his  wife's.  30 

Whatever  fate  is  for  this  play  designed, 
The  poet's  sure  he  shall  some  comfort  find: 
For  if  his  muse  has  played  him  false,  the  worst 
That  can  befall  him,  is  to  be  divorced; 
You  husbands  judge,  if  that  be  to  be  cursed. 

51 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

Maskwell,  a  Villain ;  pretended  Friend  to  Mellefont,  Gallant 
to  Lady  Touchwood,  and  in  love  with  Cynthia. 

Lord  Touchwood,  Uncle  to  Mellefont. 

Mellefont,  promised  to  and  in  love  with  Cynthia. 

Careless,  his  Friend. 

Lord  Froth,  a  solemn  Coxcomb. 

Brisk,  a  pert  Co.xcomb. 

Sir  Paul  Plyant,  an  uxorious,  foolish,  old  Knight;  brother  of 
Lady  Touchwood,  and  Father  of  Cynthia. 

Saygrace,  Chaplain  to  Lord  Touchwood. 

Boy,  Footmen,  and  Attendants. 

Lady  Touchwood,  in  love  with  Mellefont.  , 

Cynthia,  Daughter  of  Sir  Paul  by  a  former  Wife,  promised  to 

Mellefont. 
Lady   Froth,  a  great  Coquette;    pretender  to   poetry,   wit,  and 

learning. 
Lady  Plyant,  insolent  to  her  Husband,  and  easy  to  any  pretender. 

Scene  —  A  Gallery  in  Lord  Touchwood's  House,  with  Chambers 

adjoining 


52 


THE  DOUBLE-DEALER 

ACT  THE  FIRST 

Scene  I 

A  Gallery  in  Lord  Touchwood's  House,  with  Chambers 

adjoining 

Enter  Careless,  crossing  the  stage,  with  his  hat,  gloves, 
and  sword,  in  his  hands;  as  just  risen  from  table;  Mel- 
LEFONT  following  him 

Mel.  Ned,  Ned,  whither  so  fast?  what,  turned 
flincher?  why,  you  won't  leave  us? 

Care.  Where  are  the  women?  I'm  weary  of  guzzling, 
and  begin  to  think  them  the  better  company. 

Mel.  Then  thy  reason  staggers,  and  thou'rt  almost 
drunk. 

Care.  No,  faith,  but  your  fools  grow  noisy;  and  if  a 
man  must  endure  the  noise  of  words  without  sense,  I 
think  the  women  have  more  musical  voices,  and  become 
nonsense  better.  lo 

Mel.  Why,  they  are  at  the  end  of  the  gallery,  retired 
to  their  tea  and  scandal,  according  to  their  ancient  cus- 
tom, after  dinner;  but  I  made  a  pretence  to  follow 
you,  because  I  had  something  to  say  to  you  in  private, 
and  I  am  not  like  to  have  many  opportunities  this 
evening. 

Care.  And  here's  this  coxcomb  most  critically  come  to 
interrupt  you. 

53 


54  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  I 

Enter  Brisk 

Brisk.  Boys,  boys,  lads,  where  are  you?  What,  do 
you  give  ground?  mortgage  for  a  bottle,  ha?  Careless, 
this  is  your  trick;  you're  always  spoiling  company  by 
leaving  it.  22 

Care.  And  thou  art  always  spoiling  company  by 
coming  into't. 

Brisk.  Pooh!  ha!  ha!  ha!  I  know  you  envy  me: 
spite,  proud  spite,  by  the  gods!  and  burning  envy.  I'll 
be  judged  by  Mellefont  here,  who  gives  and  takes  raillery 
better,  you  or  I.  Pshaw,  man!  when  I  say  you  spoil 
company  by  leaving  it,  I  mean  you  leave  nobody  for  the 
company  to  laugh  at.  I  think  there  I  was  with  you,  ha, 
Mellefont  ?  31 

Mel.  O'my  word.  Brisk,  that  was  a  home-thrust:  you 
have  silenced  him. 

Brisk.  Oh,  my  dear  Mellefont,  let  me  perish,  if  thou 
art  not  the  soul  of  conversation,  the  very  essence  of  wit, 
and  spirit  of  wine!  —  The  deuce  take  me,  if  there  were 
three  good  things  said,  or  one  understood,  since  thy 
amputation  from  the  body  of  our  society.  —  He!  I  think 
that's  pretty  and  metaphorical  enough:  egad  I  could  not 
have  said  it  out  of  thy  company:  Careless,  ha?  40 

Care.   Hum,  aye,  what  is't? 

Brisk.  Oh,  mon  cceur!  what  is't?  Nay,  gad,  I'll  punish 
you  for  want  of  apprehension:  the  deuce  take  me  if  I 
tell  you. 

Mel.   No,  no,  hang  him,  he  has  no  taste.  —  But,  dear 

Brisk,  excuse  me,  I  have  a  little  business. 

Care.    Prithee  get  thee  gone;  thou  seest  we  are  serious. 

Mel.    We'll  come  immediately,  if  you'll  but  go  in,  and 

keep  up  good  humour  and  sense  in  the  company:  prithee 

do,  they'll  fall  asleep  else.  50 

Brisk.  Egad,  so  they  will !  —  Well,  I  will,  I  will,  gad,  you 

shall  command  me  from  the  zenith  to  the  nadir.  —  But 

the  deuce  take  me  if  I  say  a  good  thing  till  you  come. 


SCENE  I]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  55 

But  prithee,  dear  rogue,  make  haste,  prithee  make  haste, 
I  shall  burst  else.  —  And  yonder's  your  uncle,  my  Lord 
Touchwood,  swears  he'll  disinherit  you,  and  Sir  Paul 
Plyant  threatens  to  disclaim  you  for  a  son-in-law,  and 
my  Lord  Froth  won't  dance  at  your  wedding  to-morrow, 
nor,  the  deuce  take  me,  I  won't  write  your  epithalamium 
—  and  see  what  a  condition  you're  like  to  be  brought  to. 

Mel.    Well,  I'll  speak  but  three  words,  and  follow  you. 

Brisk.  Enough,  enough.  —  Careless,  bring  your  ap- 
prehension along  with  you.  [Exit. 

Care.    Pert  coxcomb!  64 

Mel.  Faith,  'tis  a  good-natured  coxcomb,  and  has  very 
entertaining  follies:  you  must  be  more  humane  to  him; 
at  this  juncture,  it  will  do  me  service.  I'll  tell  you,  I 
would  have  mirth  continued  this  day  at  any  rate;  though 
patience  purchase  folly,  and  attention  be  paid  with  noise: 
there  are  times  when  sense  may  be  unseasonable,  as  well 
as  truth.  Prithee,  do  thou  wear  none  to-day;  but  allow 
Brisk  to  have  wit,  that  thou  mayst  seem  a  fool.  72 

Care.  Why,  how  now !  why  this  extravagant  proposi- 
tion? 

Mel.  Oh,  I  would  have  no  room  for  serious  design,  for 
I  am  jealous  of  a  plot.  I  would  have  noise  and  imperti- 
nence keep  my  Lady  Touchwood's  head  from  working; 
for  hell  is  not  more  busy  than  her  brain,  nor  contains 
more  devils  than  that  imaginations. 

Care.  I  thought  your  fear  of  her  had  been  over.  Is 
not  to-morrow  appointed  for  your  marriage  with  Cyn- 
thia; and  her  father.  Sir  Paul  Plyant,  come  to  settle  the 
writings  this  day,  on  purpose?  83 

Mel.  True;  but  you  shall  judge  whether  I  have  not 
reason  to  be  alarmed.  None  besides  you  and  Maskwell 
are  acquainted  with  the  secret  of  my  aunt  Touchwood's 
violent  passion  for  me.  Since  my  first  refusal  of  her 
addresses,  she  has  endeavoured  to  do  me  all  ill  offices  with 
my  uncle;  yet  has  managed  'em  with  that  subtlety,  that 
to  him  they  have  borne  the  face  of  kindness;   while  her 


56  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  i 

malice,  like  a  dark  lantern,  only  shone  upon  me  where  it 
was  directed.  Still  it  gave  me  less  perplexity  to  prevent 
the  success  of  her  displeasure,  than  to  avoid  the  impor- 
tunities of  her  love;  and  of  two  evils,  I  thought  myself 
favoured  in  her  aversion:  but  whether  urged  by  her 
despair,  and  the  short  prospect  of  the  time  she  saw  to 
accomplish  her  designs;  whether  the  hopes  of  revenge, 
or  of  her  love,  terminated  in  the  view  of  this  my  marriage 
with  Cynthia,  I  know  not;  but  this  morning  she  surprised 
me  in  my  bed.  loo 

Care.  Was  there  ever  such  a  fury !  'tis  well  Nature  has 
not  put  it  into  her  sex's  power  to  ravish.  —  Well,  bless  us ! 
proceed.     What  followed? 

Mel.  What  at  first  amazed  me:  for  I  looked  to  have 
seen  her  in  all  the  transports  of  a  slighted  and  revengeful 
woman:  but  when  I  expected  thunder  from  her  voice, 
and  lightning  in  her  eyes,  I  saw  her  melted  into  tears 
and  hushed  into  a  sigh.  It  was  long  before  either  of  us 
spoke;  passion  had  tied  her  tongue,  and  amazement 
mine.  —  In  short,  the  consequence  was  thus,  she  omitted 
nothing  that  the  most  violent  love  could  urge,  or  tender 
words  express;  which  when  she  saw  had  no  effect,  but 
still  I  pleaded  honour  and  nearness  of  blood  to  my  uncle, 
then  came  the  storm  I  feared  at  first:  for  starting  from 
my  bedside  Hke  a  fury,  she  flew  to  my  sword,  and  with 
much  ado  I  prevented  her  doing  me  or  herself  a  mischief. 
Having  disarmed  her,  in  a  gust  of  passion  she  left  me, 
and  in  a  resolution,  confirmed  by  a  thousand  curses,  not 
to  close  her  eyes  till  they  had  seen  my  ruin.  119 

Care.  Exquisite  woman!"  but  what  the  devil,  does  she 
think  thou  hast  no  more  sense,  than  to  get  an  heir  upon 
her  body  to  disinherit  thyself?  for,  as  I  take  it,  this 
settlement  upon  you  is  with  a  proviso,  that  your  uncle 
have  no  children. 

Mel.  It  is  so.  Well,  the  service  you  are  to  do  me, 
will  be  a  pleasure  to  yourself;  I  must  get  you  to  engage 
my  Lady  Plyant  all  this  evening,  that  my  pious  aunt  may 


SCENE  I]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  57 

not  work  her  to  her  interest.  And  if  you  chance  to 
secure  her  to  yourself,  you  may  incUne  her  to  mine. 
She's  handsome,  and  knows  it;  is  very  silly,  and  thinks 
she  has  sense,  and  has  an  old  fond  husband.  131 

Care.  I  confess,  a  very  fair  foundation  for  a  lover  to 
build  upon. 

Mel.  For  my  Lord  Froth,  he  and  his  wife  will  be 
sufficiently  taken  up  with  admiring  one  another,  and 
Brisk's  gallantry,  as  they  call  it.  I'll  observe  my  uncle 
myself:  and  Jack  Maskwell  has  promised  me  to  watch 
my  aunt  narrowly,  and  give  me  notice  upon  any  suspi- 
cion. As  for  Sir  Paul,  my  wife's  father-in-law  that  is  to 
be,  my  dear  Cynthia  has  such  a  share  in  his  fatherly 
fondness,  he  would  scarce  make  her  a  moment  uneasy, 
to  have  her  happy  hereafter.  142 

Care.  So,  you  have  manned  your  works:  but  I  wish 
you  may  not  have  the  weakest  guard  where  the  enemy  is 
strongest. 

Mel.  Maskwell,  you  mean;  prithee,  why  should  you 
suspect  him? 

Care.  Faith,  I  cannot  help  it,  you  know  I  never  liked 
him;  I  am  a  little  superstitious  in  physiognomy. 

Mel.  He  has  obligations  of  gratitude  to  bind  him  to 
me;  his  dependence  upon  my  uncle  is  through  my 
means.  152 

Care.    Upon  your  aunt,  you  mean. 

Mel.   My  aunt? 

Care.  I'm  mistaken  if  there  be  not  a  familiarity  be- 
tween them  you  do  not  suspect,  notwithstanding  her  pas- 
sion for  you. 

Mel.  Pooh,  pooh,  nothing  in  the  world  but  his  design 
to  do  me  service;  and  he  endeavours  to  be  well  in  her 
esteem,  that  he  may  be  able  to  effect  it.  160 

Care.  Well,  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  mistaken;  but  your 
aunt's  aversion  in  her  revenge  cannot  be  any  way  so 
effectually  shown  as  in  bringing  forth  a  child  to  disin- 
herit you.     She  is  handsome  and  cunning,  and  naturally 


58  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  i 

wanton:  Maskwell  is  flesh  and  blood  at  best,  and  oppor- 
tunities between  them  are  frequent.  His  affection  to 
you,  you  have  confessed,  is  grounded  upon  his  interest; 
that  you  have  transplanted;  and  should  it  take  root  in 
my  lady,  I  don't  see  what  you  can  expect  from  the  fruit. 
Mel.  I  confess  the  consequence  is  visible,  were  your 
suspicions  just.  —  But  see,  the  company  is  broke  up,  let's 
meet  'em.  [Exeunt.     172 

Scene  II 

The  same 

Enter  Careless,  Mellefont,  Lord  Touchwood,  Lord 
Froth,  Sir  Paul  Plyant,  and  Brisk 

Lord  Touch.  Out  upon't,  nephew!  —  leave  your 
father-in-law  and  me  to  maintain  our  ground  against 
young  people! 

Mel.  I  beg  your  lordship's  pardon;  we  were  just  re- 
turning. 

^'^V  Paul.  Were  you,  son?  gadsbud,  much  better  as  it 
is.  —  Good,  strange!  I  swear  I'm  almost  tipsy  — 
t'other  bottle  would  have  been  too  powerful  for  me  — 
as  sure  as  can  be  it  would.  —  We  wanted  your  company; 
but  Mr.  Brisk  —  where  is  he?  I  swear  and  vow  he's  a 
most  facetious  person  —  and  the  best  company.  And, 
my  Lord  Froth,  your  lordship  is  so  merry  a  man,  he!  he! 
he!  13 

Lord  Froth.  O  foy.  Sir  Paul!  what  do  you  mean? 
Merry!  O  barbarous!     I'd  as  lieve  you  called  me  fool. 

Sir  Paul.  Nay,  I  protest  and  vow  now,  'tis  true ;  when 
Mr.  Brisk  jokes,  your  lordship's  laugh  does  so  become 
you,  he!  he!  he! 

Lord  Froth.  Ridiculous!  Sir  Paul,  you're  strangely 
mistaken,  I  find  champagne  is  powerful.  I  assure  you, 
Sir  Paul,  I  laugh  at  nobody's  jest  but  my  own  or  a  lady's ; 
I  assure  you.  Sir  Paul.  22 


SCENE  II]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  ^  59 

Brisk.  How?  how,  my  lord?  what,  affront  my  wit! 
let  me  perish,  do  I  never  say  anything  worthy  to  be 
laughed  at? 

Lord  Froth.  O  foy!  don't  misapprehend  me,  I  don't 
say  so,  for  I  often  smile  at  your  conceptions.  But  there 
is  nothing  more  unbecoming  a  man  of  quality  than 
to  laugh;  'tis  such  a  vulgar  expression  of  the  passion! 
everybody  can  laugh.  Then,  especially  to  laugh  at  the 
jest  of  an  inferior  person,  or  when  anybody  else  of  the 
same  quality  does  not  laugh  with  one;  ridiculous!  To 
be  pleased  with  what  pleases  the  crowd!  Now  when  I 
laugh,  I  always  laugh  alone.  34 

Brisk.  I  suppose,  that's  because  you  laugh  at  your  own 
jests,  egad,  ha!   ha!   ha! 

Lord  Froth.  He!  he!  I  swear,  though,  your  raillery 
provokes  me  to  a  smile. 

Brisk.  Aye,  my  lord,  'tis  a  sign  I  hit  you  in  the  teeth  if 
you  show  'em.  4° 

Lord  Froth.  He!  he!  he!  I  swear  that's  so  very 
pretty,  I  can't  forbear. 

Care.  I  find  a  quibble  bears  more  sway  in  your  lord- 
ship's face  than  a  jest. 

Lord  Touch.  Sir  Paul,  if  you  please  we'll  retire  to  the 
ladies,  and  drink  a  dish  of  tea,  to  settle  our  heads. 

Sir  Paul.  With  all  my  heart.  —  Mr.  Brisk,  you'll 
come  to  us  — or  call  me  when  you  joke;  I'll  be  ready 
to  laugh  incontinently. 

{Exeunt  Lord  Touchwood  and  Sir  Paul  Plyant. 

Mel.    But  does  your  lordship  never  see  comedies?      50 

Lord  Froth.   Oh,  yes,  sometimes  —  but  I  never  laugh. 

Mel.   No! 

Lord  Froth.     Oh,  no  —  never  laugh  indeed,  sir. 

Care.   No !  why,  what  d'ye  go  there  for? 

Lord  Froth.  To  distinguish  myself  from  the  com- 
monalty, and  mortify  the  poets:  the  fellows  grow  so 
conceited  when  any  of  their  fooHsh  wit  prevails  upon  the 
side-boxes  —  I  swear  —  he!   he!   he!   I  have  often  con- 


6o  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  i 

strained  my  inclinations  to  laugh  —  he !  he !  he !  to  avoid 
giving  them  encouragement.  60 

Mel.  You  are  cruel  to  yourself,  my  lord,  as  well  as 
malicious  to  them. 

Lord  Froth.  I  confess  I  did  myself  some  violence  at 
first;  but  now  I  think  I  have  conquered  it. 

Brisk.  Let  me  perish,  my  lord,  but  there  is  something 
very  particular  in  the  humour.  'Tis  true,  it  makes 
against  wit,  and  I'm  sorry  for  some  friends  of  mine  that 
write,  but,  egad,  I  love  to  be  malicious.  Nay,  deuce  take 
me,  there's  wit  in't  too;  and  wit  must  be  foiled  by  wit; 
cut  a  diamond  with  a  diamond;   no  other  way,  egad!  70 

Lord  Froth.  Oh,  I  thought  you  would  not  be  long 
before  you  found  out  the  wit. 

Care.  Wit!  in  what?  where  the  devil's  the  wit  in  not 
laughing  when  a  man  has  a  mind  to't? 

Brisk.  O  Lord,  why,  can't  you  find  it  out?  Why, 
there  'tis,  in  the  not  laughing  —  don't  you  apprehend 
me?  —  [Aside  to  Froth.]  —  My  lord,  Careless  is  a  very 
honest  fellow,  but  hearkee  —  you  understand  me,  some- 
what heavy,  a  little  shallow,  or  so.  —  [Aloud.]  —  Why, 
I'll  tell  you  now.  Suppose  now  you  come  up  to  me  [so 
—  nay,  prithee.  Careless,  be  instructed  —  suppose,  as  I 
was  saying,  you  come  up  to  me  holding  your  sides,  and 
laughing,  as  if  you  would  —  Well  —  I  look  grave,  and 
ask  the  cause  of  this  immoderate  mirth  —  you  laugh  on 
still,  and  are  not  able  to  tell  me.  —  Still  I  look  grave, 
not  so  much  as  smile. 

.  Care.    Smile !  no ;  what  the  devil  should  you  smile  at, 
when  you  suppose  I  can't  tell  you? 

Brisk.  Pshaw!  pshaw!  prithee,  don't  interrupt  me. — 
But  I  tell  you,  you  shall  tell  me  —  at  last  —  but  it  shall 
be  a  great  while  first.  91 

Care.  Well,  but  prithee  don't  let  it  be  a  great  while, 
because  I  long  to  have  it  over. 

Brisk.  Well,  then,  you  tell  me  some  good  jest,  or  very 
witty  thing,  laughing  all  the  while  as  if  you  were  ready  to 


SCENE  II]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  6l 

die,  and  I  hear  it,  and  look  thus.  —  Would  not  you  be 
disappointed? 

Care.  No;  for  if  it  were  a  witty  thing,  I  should  not 
expect  you  to  understand  it. 

Lord  Froth.  O  foy,  Mr.  Careless!  all  the  world  allows 
Mr.  Brisk  to  have  wit,  my  wife  says  he  has  a  great  deal. 
I  hope  you  think  her  a  judge.  102 

Brisk.  Pooh,  my  lord,  his  voice  goes  for  nothing!  I 
can't  tell  how  to  make  him  apprehend.  —  [To  Careless.] 
Take  it  t'other  way  —  suppose  I  say  a  witty  thing  to 
you? 

Care.   Then  I  shall  be  disappointed  indeed. 

Alel.  Let  him  alone,  Brisk,  he  is  obstinately  bent  not 
to  be  instructed. 

Brisk.   I'm  sorry  for  him,  the  deuce  take  me!  no 

Mel.    Shall  we  go  to  the  ladies,  my  lord? 

Lord  Froth.  With  all  my  heart,  methinks  we  are  a 
solitude  without  'em. 

Mel.  Or,  what  say  you  to  another  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne? 

Lord  Froth.  Oh,  for  the  universe,  not  a  drop  more  I 
beseech  you!  —  O  intemperate!  I  have  a  flushing  in  my 
face  already.       [Takes  out  a  pocket-glass,  and  looks  in  it. 

Brisk.  Let  me  see,  let  me  see,  my  lord!  I  broke  my 
glass  that  was  in  the  lid  of  my  snuff-box.  Hum!  deuce 
take  me,  I  have  encouraged  a  pimple  here  too.  121 

[Takes  the  glass,  and  looks. 

Lord  Froth.  Then  you  must  mortify  him"  with  a  patch; 
my  wife  shall  supply  you."  Come,  gentlemen,  allons, 
here  is  company  coming.  [Exeunt. 


62  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  i  . 

Scene   III 

An  Apartment  in  Lord  Touchwood's  House 
Enter  Lady  Touchwood  and  Maskwell 

Lady  Touch.  I'll  hear  no  more!  y'are  false  and  un- 
grateful.    Come,  I  know  you  false. 

Mask.  I  have  been  frail,  I  confess,  madam,  for  your 
ladyship's  service. 

Lady  Touch.  That  I  should  trust  a  man  whom  I  had 
known  betray  his  friend! 

Mask.   What  friend  have  I  betrayed?  or  to  whom? 

Lady  Touch.  Your  friend  Mellefont,  and  to  me;  can 
you  deny  it? 

Mask.   I  do  not.  lo 

Lady  Touch.  Have  you  not  wronged  my  lord,  who  has 
been  a  father  to  you  in  your  wants,  and  given  you  being? 
Have  you  not  wronged  him  in  the  highest  manner,  in  his 
bed? 

Mask.  With  your  ladyship's  help,  and  for  your  serv- 
ice, as  I  told  you  before.     I  can't  deny  that  neither. 

—  Anything  more,  madam? 

Lady  Touch.  More!  audacious  villain!  Oh,  what's 
more,  is  most  my  shame!  —  Have  you  not  dishonoured 
me?  20 

Mask.  No,  that  I  deny;  for  I  never  told  in  all  my 
life:   so  that  accusation's  answered;   on  to  the  next. 

Lady  Touch.  Death,  do  you  dally  with  my  passion? 
Insolent  devil!  But  have  a  care  —  provoke  me  not;  for, 
by  the  eternal  fire,  you  shall  not  scape  my  vengeance!  — 
Calm  villain!  How  unconcerned  he  stands,  confessing 
treachery  and  ingratitude!     Is  there  a  vice  more  black! 

—  Oh,  I  have  excuses,  thousands,  for  my  faults!  fire  in 
my  temper,  passions  in  my  soul,  apt  to  every  provoca- 
tion;   oppressed  at  once  with  love  and  with  despair. 


SCENE  III]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  63 

But  a  sedate,  a  thinking  villain,  whose  black  blood  runs 
temperately  bad,"  what  excuse  can  clear?  32 

Mask.  Would  you  be  in  temper,  madam?  I  would 
not  talk  not  to  be  heard.  I  have  been  —  [She  walks 
about  disordered]  a  very  great  rogue  for  your  sake,  and 
you  reproach  me  with  it;  I  am  ready  to  be  a  rogue  still 
to  do  you  service;  and  you  are  flinging  conscience  and 
honour  in  my  face  to  rebate  my  inclinations.  How  am 
I  to  behave  myself?  You  know  I  am  your  creature,  my 
life  and  fortune  in  your  power;  to  disoblige  you  brings 
me  certain  ruin.  Allow  it,  I  would  betray  you,  I  would 
not  be  traitor  to  myself:  I  don't  pretend  to  honesty, 
because  you  know  I  am  a  rascal :  but  I  w'ould'  convince 
you  from  the  necessity  of  my  being  firm  to  you.  44 

Lady  Touch.  Necessity,  impudence!  Can  no  grati- 
tude incline  you,  no  obligations  touch  you?  Have  not 
my  fortune  and  my  person  been  subjected  to  your  pleas- 
ure? Were  you  not  in  the  nature  of  a  servant,"  and  have 
not  I  in  effect  made  you  lord  of  all,  of  me,  and  of  my  lord? 
Where  is  that  humble  love,  the  languishing,  that  adora- 
tion, which  once  was  paid  me,  and  everlastingly  engaged? 

Mask.  Fixed,  rooted  in  my  heart,  whence  nothing  can 
remove  'em,  yet  you  —  53 

Lady  Touch.   Yet!   what  yet? 

Mask.  Nay,  m.isconceive  me  not,  madam,  when  I  say 
I  have  had  a  generous  and  a  faithful  passion,  which  you 
had  never  favoured,  but  through  revenge  and  policy. 

Lady  Touch.   Ha ! 

Mask.  Look  you,  madam,  we  are  alone:  pray  contain 
yourself,  and  hear  me.  You  know  you  loved  your  [oo 
nephew,  when  I  first  sighed  for  you;  I  quickly  found  it; 
an  argument  that  I  loved;  for  with  that  art  you  veiled 
your  passion,  'twas  imperceptible  to  all  but  jealous  eyes. 
This  discovery  made  me  bold:  I  confess  it;  for  by  it  I 
thought  you  in  my  power.  Your  nephew's  scorn  of  you 
added  to  my  hopes;  I  watched  the  occasion,  and  took 
you,  just  repulsed  by  him,  warm  at  once  with  love  and 


64  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  i 

indignation;  your  disposition,  my  arguments,  and  happy 
opportunity,  accomplished  my  design;  I  pressed  the 
yielding  minute,  and  was  blessed.  How  I  have  loved  you 
since  words  have  not  shown,  then  how  should  words 
express?  72 

Lady  Touch.  Well,  mollifying  devil!  —  and  have  I  not 
met  your  love  with  forward  fire? 

Mask.  Your  zeal,  I  grant,  was  ardent,  but  misplaced; 
there  was  revenge  in  view:  that  woman's  idol  had  defiled 
the  temple  of  the  god,  and  love  was  made  a  mock- 
worship.  —  A  son  and  heir  would  have  edged  young 
Mellefont  upon  the  brink  of  ruin,  and  left  him  none  but 
you  to  catch  at  for  prevention.  80 

Lady  Touch.  Again,  provoke  me!  Do  you  wind  me 
like  a  'larum,  only  to  rouse  my  own  stilled  soul  for  your 
diversion?     Confusion! 

Mask.  Nay,  madam,  I'm  gone  if  you  relapse.  —  What 
needs  this?  I  say  nothing  but  what  you  yourself,  in  open 
hours  of  love,  have  told  me.  Why  should  you  deny  it? 
nay,  how  can  you?  Is  not  all  this  present  heat  owing  to 
the  same  fire?  Do  you  not  love  him  still?  How  have 
I  this  day  offended  you,  but  in  not  breaking  off  his 
match  with  Cynthia?  which  ere  to-morrow  shall  be 
done  —  had  you  but  patience  —  91 

Lady  Touch.  How,  what  said  you,  Maskwell.  —  An- 
other caprice  to  unwind  my  temper? 

Mask.  By  Heaven,  no!  I  am  your  slave,  the  slave  of 
all  your  pleasures;  and  will  not  rest  till  I  have  given  you 
peace,  would  you  suffer  me. 

Lady  Touch.  O  Maskwell,  in  vain  I  do  disguise  me 
from  thee!  thou  knowest  me,  knowest  the  very  inmost 
windings  and  recesses  of  my  soul.  —  O  Mellefont!  I 
burn.  —  Married  to-morrow !  Despair  strikes  me.  Yet 
my  soul  knows  I  hate  him  too:  let  him  but  once  be 
mine,  and  next  immediate  ruin  seize  him.  102 

Mask.  Compose  yourself  ;  you  shall  possess  and  ruin 
him  too.  —  Will  that  please  you? 


SCENE  III]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  65 

Lady  Touch.  How,  how?  thou  dear,  thou  precious 
villain,  how? 

Mask.  You  have  already  been  tampering  with  my 
Lady  Plyant? 

Lady  Touch.  I  liave :  she  is  ready  for  any  impression  I 
think  fit.  no 

Mask.  She  must  be  thoroughly  persuaded  that  Melle- 
font  loves  her. 

Lady  Touch.  She  is  so  credulous  that  way  naturally, 
and  likes  him  so  well,  that  she  will  believe  it  faster  than 
I  can  persuade  her.  But  I  don't  see  what  you  can  pro- 
pose from  s  ch  a  trifling  design;  for  her  first  conversing 
with  Mellefont  will  convince  her  of  the  contrary. 

Mask.   I  know  it.  —  I  don't  depend  upon  it.  —  But  it 
will  prepare  something  else;   and  gain  us  leisure  to  lay  a 
stronger  plot:  if  I  gain  a  little  time  I  shall  not  want  con- 
trivance. 121 
One  minute  gives  invention  to  destroy; 
What  to  rebuild,  will  a  whole  age  employ. 

[Exeunt. 


CONGREVE 


ACT   THE   SECOND 

Scene  I 

The  Gallery  in  Lord  Touchwood's  House 

Enter  Lady  Froth  and  Cynthia 

Cyn.  Indeed,  madam!  Is  it  possible  your  ladyship 
could  have  been  so  much  in  love? 

Lady  Froth.  I  could  not  sleep ;  I  did  not  sleep  one  wink 
for  three  weeks  together. 

Cyn.  Prodigious!  I  wonder  want  of  sleep,  and  so 
much  love,  and  so  much  wit  as  your  ladyship  has,  did 
not  turn  your  brain. 

Lady  Froth.  0  my  dear  Cynthia,  you  must  not  rally 
your  friend.  —  But  really,  as  you  say,  I  wonder  too  — 
but  then  I  had  a  way:  for  between  you  and  I,  I  had 
whimsies  and  vapours,  but  I  gave  them  vent.  n 

Cyn.   How,  pray  madam? 

Lady  Froth.  Oh,  I  writ,  writ  abundantly  —  do  you 
never  write? 

Cyn.   Write  what? 

Lady  Froth.  Songs,  elegies,  satires,  encomiums,  pane- 
gyrics, lampoons,  plays,  or  heroic  poems. 

Cyn.  O  Lord,  not  I,  madam;  I'm  content  to  be  a 
courteous  reader.  19 

Lady  Froth.  0  inconsistent!  in  love,  and  not  write! 
if  my  lord  and  I  had  been  both  of  your  temper,  we  had 
never  come  together.  —  Oh,  bless  me!  what  a  sad  thing 
would  that  have  been,  if  my  lord  and  I  should  never 

have  met! 

66 


SCENE  I]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  6/ 

Cyn.  Then  neither  my  lord  nor  you  would  ever  have 
met  with  your  match,  on  my  conscience. 

Lady  Froth.  O'  my  conscience,  no  more  we  should; 
thou  sayest  right:  for  sure  my  Lord  Froth  is  as  fine  a 
gentleman  and  as  much  a  man  of  quality!  Ah,  nothing 
at  all  of  the  common  air!  —  I  think  I  may  say  he  wants 
nothing  but  a  blue  ribbon  and  a  star"  to  make  him 
shine,  the  very  Phosphorus "  of  our  hemisphere.  Do 
you  understand  those  two  hard  words?  If  you  don't, 
I'll  explain  'em  to  you.  J4 

Cyn.  Yes,  yes,  madam,  I'm  not  so  ignorant.  —  [Aside.] 
At  least  I  won't  own  it,  to  be  troubled  with  your  instruc- 
tions. 

Lady  Froth.  Nay,  I  beg  your  pardon;  but  being  de- 
rived from  the  Greek,  I  thought  you  might  have  escaped 
the  etymology.  —  But  I'm  the  more  amazed  to  find  you 
a  woman  of  letters,  and  not  write!  bless  me!  how  can 
Mellefont  believe  you  love  him?  42 

Cyn.  Why  faith,  madam,  he  that  won't  take  my  word, 
shall  never  have  it  under  my  hand. 

Lady  Froth.  I  vow  Mellefont's  a  pretty  gentleman, 
but  methinks  he  wants  a  manner. 

Cyn.   A  manner  I  what's  that,  madam? 

Lady  Froth.  Some  distinguishing  quality,  as  for  ex- 
ample, the  bel  air  or  brillant  of  Mr.  Brisk;  the  solemnity, 
yet  complaisance  of  my  lord,  or  something  of  his  own 
that  should  look  a  little  je  ne  sais  quoi ;"  he  is  too  much 
a  mediocrity,  in  my  mind.  52 

Cyn.  He  does  not  indeed  affect  either  pertness  or 
formality,  for  which  I  like  him.     Here  he  comes. 

Lady  Froth.  And  my  lord  with  him;  pray  observe  the 
difference. 

Enter  Lord  Froth,  Mellefont,  and  Brisk 

Cyn.  [Aside.]  Impertinent  creature!  I  could  almost 
be  angry  with  her  now. 


68  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  ii 

Lady  Froth.  My  lord,  I  have  been  telling  Cynthia 
how  much  I  have  been  in  love  with  you,  I  swear  I  have ; 
I'm  not  ashamed  to  own  it  now.  Ah,  it  makes  my  heart 
leap!  I  vow,  I  sigh  when  I  think  on't;  my  dear  lord,  ha! 
ha!   ha!   do  you  remember,  my  lord?  63 

[Squeezes  him  hy  the  hand,  looks   kindly  on  him, 
sighs  and  then  laughs  out. 

Lord  Froth.  Pleasant  creature!  perfectly  well.  —  Ah, 
that  look!  aye,  there  it  is!  who  could  resist?  'twas  so 
my  heart  was  made  a  captive  first,  and  ever  since  't  has 
been  in  love  with  happy  slavery. 

Lady  Froth.  O  that  tongue!  that  dear  deceitful 
tongue!  that  charming  softness  in  your  mien  and  your 
expression!  and  then  your  bow!  Good  my  lord,  bow  [70 
as  you  did  when  I  gave  you  my  picture:  here,  suppose 
this  my  picture.  —  [Gives  him  a  pocket-glass.]  Pray 
mind,  my  lord;  ah,  he  bows  charmingly!  —  Nay,  my 
lord,  you  shan't  kiss  it  so  much,  I  shall  grow  jealous,  I 
vow  now. 

[He  boivs  profoundly  low,  then  kisses  the  glass. 

Lord  Froth.  I  saw  myself  there,  and  kissed  it  for  your 
sake. 

Lady  Froth.  Ah,  gallantry  to  the  last  degree!  —  Mr. 
Brisk,  you're  a  judge;  was  ever  anything  so  well  bred 
as  my  lord?  80 

Brisk.  Never  anything  but  your  ladyship,  let  me 
perish! 

Lady  Froth.  Oh,  prettily  turned  again!  let  me  die,  but 
you  have  a  great  deal  of  wit !  —  Mr.  Mellefont,  don't 
you  think  Mr.  Brisk  has  a  world  of  wit? 

Mel.   Oh,  yes,  madam! 

Brisk.   Oh,  dear,  madam !  — 

Lady  Froth.   An  infinite  deal? 

Brisk.   O  Heavens,  madam !  — 

Lady  Froth.   More  wit  than  anybody?  go 

Brisk.  I'm  everlastingly  your  humble  servant,  deuce 
take  me,  madam. 


SCENE  I]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  69 

Lord  Froth.  [To  Cynthia.]  Don't  you  think  us  a 
happy  couple? 

Cyn.  I  vow,  my  lord,  I  think  you  are  the  happiest 
couple  in  the  world;  for  you're  not  only  happy  in  one 
another  and  when  you  are  together,  but  happy  in  your- 
selves, and  by  yourselves. 

Lord  Froth.  I  hope  Mellefont  will  make  a  good  hus- 
band too.  100 

Cyn.   'Tis  my  interest  to  believe  he  will,  my  lord. 

Lord  Froth.  D'ye  think  he'll  love  you  as  well  as  I 
do  my  wife?  I'm  afraid  not. 

Cyn.   I  believe  he'll  love  me  better. 

Lord  Froth.  Heavens!  that  can  never  be;  but  why  do 
you  think  so? 

Cyn.  Because  he  has  not  so  much  reason  to  be  fond 
of  himself. 

Lord  Froth.  Oh,  your  humble  servant  for  that,  dear 
madam.  —  Well,  Mellefont,  you'll  be  a  happy  creature. 

Mel.  Aye,  my  lord,  I  shall  have  the  same  reason  for 
my  happiness  that  your  lordship  has,  I  shall  think  my- 
self happy.  1^3 

Lord  Froth.   Ah,  that's  all. 

Brisk,  [ro  Lady  Froth.]  Your  ladyship's  in  the  right; 
but,  egad,  I'm  wholly  turned  into  satire.  I  confess  I 
write  but  seldom,  but  when  I  do  —  keen  iambics,"  egad! 
But  my  lord  was  telling  me,  your  ladyship  has  made  an 
essay  toward  an  heroic  poem." 

Lady  Froth.  Did  my  lord  tell  you?  yes,  I  vow,  and 
the  subject  is  my  lord's  love  to  me.  And  what  do  you 
think  I  call  it?  I  dare  swear  you  won't  guess  —  The 
Sillabub;"  ha!  ha!  ha!  123 

Brisk.  Becausemy  lord's  title's  Froth,  egad;  ha!  ha! 
ha!  deucetakeme,  very  a /)ro/>05  and  surprising,  ha!  ha! 

ha! 

Lady  Froth.  He!  aye,  is  not  it?  —  And  then  I  call  my 
lord  Spumoso,  and  myself  —  what  d'ye  think  I  call  my- 
self? 


70  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  ii 

Brisk.   Lactilla,  maj'^be  —  'gad,  I  cannot  tell.  130 

Lady  Froth.    Biddy,  that's  all;  just  my  own  name. 

Brisk.  Biddy!  egad,  very  pretty!  —  Deuce  take  me  if 
your  ladyship  has  not  the  art  of  surprising  the  most 
naturally  in  the  world!  —  I  hope  you'll  make  me  happy 
in  communicating  the  poem. 

Lady  Froth.  Oh,  you  must  be  my  confidant,  I  must  ask 
your  advice. 

Brisk.  I'm  your  humble  servant,  let  me  perish!  —  I 
presume  your  ladyship  has  read  Bossu?  " 

Lady  Froth.  Oh,  yes,  and  Rapin,"  and  Dacier  "  upon 
Aristotle  and  Horace.  —  My  lord,  you  must  not  be  jeal- 
ous, I'm  communicating  all  to  Mr.  Brisk.  142 

Lord  Froth.  No,  no,  I'll  allow  Mr.  Brisk;  have  you 
nothing  about  you  to  show  him,  my  dear? 

Lady  Froth.  Yes,  I  believe  I  have.  —  Mr.  Brisk,  come, 
will  you  go  into  the  next  room,  and  there  I'll  show  you 
what  I  have. 

Lord  Froth.  I'll  walk  a  turn  in  the  garden,  and  come 
to  you.  [Exeunt  Lord  and  Lady  Froth  and  Brisk. 

Mel.   You're  thoughtful,  Cynthia?  150 

Cyn.  Vm.  thinking,  though  marriage  makes  man  and 
wife  one  flesh,  it  leaves  them  still  two  fools;  and  they 
become  more  conspicuous  by  setting  off  one  another. 

Mel.  That's  only  when  two  fools  meet,  and  their  fol- 
lies are  opposed. 

Cyn.  Nay,  I  have  known  two  wits  meet,  and  by  the 
opposition  of  their  wit  render  themselves  as  ridiculous  as 
fools.  'Tis  an  odd  game  we're  going  to  play  at;  what 
think  you  of  drawing  stakes,  and  giving  over  in  time? 

Mel.  No,  hang't,  that's  not  endeavouring  to  win,  be- 
cause it's  possible  we  may  lose;  since  we  have  shufHed 
and  cut,  let's  e'en  turn  up  trump  now.  162 

Cyn.  Then  I  find  it's  Uke  cards:  if  either  of  us  have  a 
good  hand,  it  is  an  accident  of  fortune. 

Mel.  No,  marriage  is  rather  like  a  game  at  bowls; 
Fortune  indeed  makes  the  match,  and  the  two  nearest, 


SCENE  I]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  7I 

and  sometimes  the  two  farthest,  are  together  ;"  but  the 
game  depends  entirely  upon  judgement. 

Cyn.  Still  it  is  a  game,  and  consequently  one  of  us 
must  be  a  loser.  170 

Mel.  Not  at  all;  only  a  friendly  trial  of  skill,  and  the 
winnings  to  be  laid  out  in  an  entertainment.  —  What's 
here,  the  music?  —  [Musicians  cross  the  stage.]  Oh,  my 
lord  has  promised  the  company  a  new  song;  we'll  get 
'em  to  give  it  us  by  the  way.  —  [To  the  Musicians.]  Pray 
let  us  have  the  favour  of  you,  to  practise  the  song  before 
the  company  hear  it. 

Song 

^^  Cynthia  frowns  whene'er  I  woo  her, 
Yet  she's  vexed  if  I  give  over; 
Much  she  fears  I  should  undo  her,  180 

But  much  more  to  lose  her  lover: 
Thus  in  doubting  she  refuses; 
And  not  winning,  thus  she  loses. 

"Prithee,  Cynthia,  look  behind  you, 
Age  and  wrinkles  will  overtake  you; 
Then,  too  late,  desire  will  find  you, 
When  the  power  must  forsake  you: 
Think,  oh,  think,  0'  th'  sad  condition, 
To  be  past,  yet  wish  fruition!  " 

Mel,   You  shall  have  my  thanks  below.  190 

[To  the  Musicians,  who  go  out. 

Enter  Sir  Paul  Plyant  and  Lady  Plyant 

Sir  Paul.  [Aside  to  Lady  Plyant.]  Gadsbud!  I  am 
provoked  into  a  fermentation,  as  my  Lady  Froth  says; 
was  ever  the  like  read  of  in  story? 

Lady  Ply.  [Aside  to  Sir  Paul.]  Sir  Paul,  have  patience; 
let  me  alone  to  rattle  him  up. 


72  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  ii 

Sir  Paul.  Pray  your  ladyship,  give  me  leave  to  be 
angry.  —  I'll  rattle  him  up,  I  warrant  you,  I'll  firk  him 
with  a  certiorari ! " 

Lady  Ply.  You  firk  him!  I'll  firk  him  myself;  pray, 
Sir  Paul,  hold  you  contented.  200 

Cyn.  [Aside  to  Mellefont.]  Bless  me,  what  makes 
my  father  in  such  a  passion !    I  never  saw  him  thus  before. 

Sir  Paul.  Hold  yourself  contented,  my  Lady  Plyant: 
I  find  passion  coming  upon  me  by  inflation,  and  I  cannot 
submit  as  formerly,  therefore  give  way. 

Lady  Ply.  How  now!  will  you  be  pleased  to  retire, 
and  — 

Sir  Paul.  No,  marry,  will  I  not  be  pleased!  I  am 
pleased  to  be  angry,  that's  my  pleasure  at  this  time. 

Mel.    [Aside  to  Cynthia.]     What  can  this  mean?     210 

Lady  Ply.  Gad'smy  life,  the  man's  distracted!  Why, 
how  now!  who  are  you?  what  am  I?  Slidikins,"  can't  I 
govern  you?  what  did  I  marry  you  for?  Am  I  not  to 
be  absolute  and  uncontrollable?  Is  it  fit  a  woman  of  my 
spirit  and  conduct  should  be  contradicted  in  a  matter  of 
this  concern? 

Sir  Paul.  It  concerns  me,  and  only  me  —  besides,  I'm 
not  to  be  governed  at  all  times.  When  I  am  in  tran- 
quillity, my  Lady  Plyant  shall  command  Sir  Paul;  but 
when  I  am  provoked  to  fury,  I  cannot  incorporate  with 
patience  and  reason  —  as  soon  may  tigers  match  with 
tigers,  lambs  with  lambs,  and  every  creature  couple  with 
its  foe,  as  the  poet  says."  223 

Lady  Ply.  He's  hot-headed  still!  —  'Tis  in  vain  to 
talk  to  you;  but  remember  I  have  a  curtain-lecture  for 
you,  you  disobedient,  headstrong  brute! 

Sir  Paul.  No;  'tis  because  I  won't  be  headstrong, 
because  I  won't  be  a  brute,  and  have  my  head  fortified," 
that  I  am  thus  exasperated.  But  I  will  protect  my 
honour,  and  yonder  is  the  violator  of  my  fame.        2.30 

Lady  Ply.  'Tis  my  honour  that  is  concerned;  and  the 
violation  was  intended  to  me.     Your  honour!  you  have 


SCEN£  i]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  73 

none  but  what  is  in  my  keeping,  and  I  can  dispose  of  it 
when  I  please  —  therefore  don't  provoke  me. 

Sir  Paul.  [Aside.]  Hum,  gadsbud,  she  says  true!  — 
[Aloud.]  Well,  my  lady,  march  on,  I  will  fight  under 
you,  then;  I  am  convinced,  as  far  as  passion  will  per- 
mit.  [Lady  Plyant  and  Sir  Paul  come  up  to  Mellefont. 

Lady  Ply.    Inhuman  and  treacherous  — 

Sir  Paul.  Thou  serpent  and  first  tempter  of  woman- 
kind! 241 

Cyn.   Bless  me,  sir!  —  madam,  what  mean  you! 

Sir  Paul.  Thy,"  Thy,  come  away.  Thy!  touch  him 
not.  Come  hither,  girl,  go  not  near  him;  snakes  are  in 
his  peruke,  and  the  crocodile  of  Nilus  in  his  belly; "  he 
will  eat  thee  up  alive. 

Lady  Ply.    Dishonourable,  impudent  creature! 

Mel.  For  Heaven's  sake,  madam,  to  whom  do  you 
direct  this  language?  249 

Lady  Ply.  Have  I  behaved  myself  with  all  the  decorum 
and  nicety  befitting  the  person  of  Sir  Paul's  wife?  have 
I  preserved  my  honour  as  it  were  in  a  snow-house  for 
these  three  years  past?  have  I  been  white  and  unsullied 
even  by  Sir  Paul  himself? 

Sir  Paul.  Nay,  she  has  been  an  invincible  wife,  even 
to  me;    that's  the  truth  on't. 

Lady  Ply.  Have  I,  I  say,  preserved  myself  like  a  fair 
sheet  of  paper,  for  you  to  make  a  blot  upon? 

Sir  Paul.  And  she  shall  make  a  simile  with  any  woman 
in  England.  260 

Mel.   I  am  so  amazed,  I  know  not  what  to  say. 

Sir  Paul.  Do  you  think,  my  daughter,  this  pretty 
creature  —  gadsbud;  she's  a  wife  for  a  cherubim!  —  do 
you  think  her  fit  for  nothing  but  to  be  a  stalking-horse  to 
stand  before  you,  while  you  take  aim  at  my  wife?  Gads- 
bud, I  was  never  angry  before  in  my  life,  and  I'll  never 
be  appeased  again! 

Mel.  [Aside.]  Hell  and  damnation!  this  is  my  aunt; 
such  malice  can  be  engendered  nowhere  else. 


74  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  ii 

Lady  Ply.  Sir  Paul,  take  Cynthia  from  his  sight; 
leave  me  to  strike  him  with  the  remorse  of  his  intended 
crime.  272 

Cyn.  Pray,  sir,  stay,  hear  him;  I  dare  affirm  he's 
innocent. 

Sir  Paul.  Innocent!  why  hark'ye,  come  hither,  Thy, 
hark'ye,  I  had  it  from  his  aunt,  my  sister  Touchwood.  — 
Gadsbud,  he  does  not  care  a  farthing  for  anything  of  thee 
but  thy  portion:  why,  he's  in  love  with  my  wife;  he 
Would  have  tantalized  thee,  and  made  a  cuckold  of  thy 
poor  father;  and  that  would  certainly  have  broken  [280 
my  heart.  —  I'm  sure  if  ever  I  should  have  horns,  they 
would  kill  me;  they  would  never  come  kindly,  I  should 
die  of  'em,  like  a  child  that  was  cutting  his  teeth;  I  should, 
indeed,  Thy  —  therefore  come  away;  but  Providence  has 
prevented  all,  therefore  come  away  when  I  bid  you. 

Cyn.   I  must  obey.     [Exeunt  Sir  Paul  and  Cynthia. 

Lady  Ply.  Oh,  such  a  thing!  the  impiety  of  it  startles 
me !  To  wrong  so  good,  so  fair  a  creature,  and  one  that 
loves  you  tenderly;  'tis  a  barbarity  of  barbarities,  and 
nothing  could  be  guilty  of  it  —  2go 

Mel.  But  the  greatest  villain  imagination  can  form.  I 
grant  it;  and  next  to  the  villainy  of  such  a  fact  is  the 
villainy  of  aspersing  me  with  the  guilt.  How?  which  way 
was  I  to  wrong  her?  for  yet  I  understand  you  not. 

Lady  Ply.  Why,  gad's  my  life,  cousin  Mellefont,  you 
cannot  be  so  peremptory  as  to  deny  it,  when  I  tax  you 
with  it  to  your  face!  for,  now  Sir  Paul's  gone,  you  are 
cormn  nobus.^  298 

Mel.    By  Heaven,  I   love  her  more   than   life,  or  — 

Lady  Ply.  Fiddle,  faddle,  don't  tell  me  of  this  or  that, 
and  everything  in  the  world,  but  give  me  mathemacular  " 
demonstration,  answer  me  directly.  —  But  I  have  not 
patience  —  Oh,  the  impiety  of  it !  as  I  was  saying,  and  the 
unparalleled  wickedness!  O  merciful  Father!  how  could 
you  think  to  reverse  nature  so  —  to  make  the  daughter 
the  means  of  procuring  the  mother? 


SCENE  I]  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  75 

Mel.    The  daughter  to  procure  the  mother! 

Lady  Ply.  Aye,  for  though  I  am  not  Cynthia's  own 
mother,  I  am  her  father's  wife,  and  that's  near  enough 
to  make  it  incest.  310 

Mel.  [Aside.]  Incest!  O  my  precious  aunt,  and  the 
devil  in  conjunction!" 

Lady  Ply.  Oh,  reiiect  upon  the  horror  of  that,  and  then 
the  guilt  of  deceiving  everybody;  marrying  the  daughter, 
only  to  make  a  cuckold  of  the  father;  and  then  seducing 
me,  debauching  my  purity,  and  perverting  me  from  the 
road  of  virtue,  in  which  I  have  trod  thus  long,  and  never 
made  one  trip,  not  one  faux  pas;  Oh,  consider  it,  what 
would  you  have  to  answer  for,  if  you  should  provoke  me 
to  frailty?  Alas!  humanity  is  feeble.  Heaven  knows! 
very  feeble,  and  unable  to  support  itself.  321 

Mel.  Where  am  I?  is  it  day?  and  am  I  awake?  — 
Madam  — 

Lady  Ply.  And  nobody  knows  how  circumstances  may 
happen  together.  —  To  my  thinking,  now,  I  could  resist 
the  strongest  temptation.  —  But  yet  I  know,  'tis  im- 
possible for  me  to  know  whether  I  could  or  not;  there's 
no  certainty  in  the  things  of  this  life. 

Mel.  Madam,  pray  give  me  leave  to  ask  you  one 
question.  330 

Lady  Ply.  O  Lord,  ask  me  the  question!  I'll  swear  I'll 
refuse  it!  I  swear  I'll  deny  it !  —  therefore  don't  ask  me: 
nay,  you  shan't  ask  me;  I  swear  I'll  deny  it.  O  gemini, 
you  have  brought  all  the  blood  into  my  face !  I  warrant  I 
am  as  red  as  a  turkey-cock;  Oh,  iie,  cousin  Mellefont! 

Mel.   Nay,  madam,  hear  me;    I  mean  — 

Lady  Ply.  Hear  you!  no,  no;  I'll  deny  you  first,  and 
hear  you  afterward.  For  one  does  not  know  how  one's 
mind  may  change  upon  hearing.  —  Hearing  is  one  of  the 
senses,  and  all  the  senses  are  fallible;  I  won't  trust  my 
honour,  I  assure  you;  my  honour  is  infalb'ble  and  un- 
comeatable.  342 

Mel.   For  Heaven's  sake,  madam  — 


76  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  ii 

Lady  Ply.  Oh,  name  it  no  more!  —  Bless  me,  how  can 
you  talk  of  Heaven!  and  have  so  much  wickedness  in 
your  heart?  Maybe  you  don't  think  it  a  sin.  —  They 
say  some  of  you  gentlemen  don't  think  it  a  sin.  —  Maybe 
it  is  no  sin  to  them  that  don't  think  it  so;  indeed,  if  I  did 
not  think  it  a  sin  —  but  still  my  honour,  if  it  were  no  sin. 
—  But  then,  to  marry  my  daughter,  for  the  conveniency 
of  frequent  opportunities,  I'll  never  consent  to  that;  as 
sure  as  can  be,  I'll  break  the  match.  352 

Mel.  Death  and  amazement!  —  Madam,  upon  my 
knees  — 

Lady  Ply.  Nay,  nay,  rise  up!  come,  you  shall  see  my 
good  nature.  I  know  love  is  powerful,  and  nobody  can 
help  his  passion:  'tis  not  your  fault,  nor  I  swear  it  is  not 
mine.  —  HoW  can  I  help  it,  if  I  have  charms?  and  how 
can  you  help  it  if  you  are  made  a  captive?  I  swear  it  is 
pity  it  should  be  a  fault.  —  But  my  honour  —  well,  [360 
but  your  honour  too  —  but  the  sin!  —  well,  but  the  neces- 
sity —  O  Lord,  here's  somebody  coming,  I  dare  not  stay. 
Well,  you  must  consider  of  your  crime;  and  strive  as 
much  as  can  be  against  it  —  strive,  be  sure  —  but  don't 
be  melanchohc,  don't  despair.  —  But  never  think  that 
I'll  grant  you  anything;  O  Lord,  no.  —  But  be  sure  you 
lay  aside  all  thoughts  of  the  marriage:  for  though  I 
know  you  don't  love  Cynthia,  only  as  a  blind  to  your 
passion  for  me,  yet  it  will  make  me  jealous.  —  0  Lord, 
what  did  I  say?  jealous!  no,  no,  I  can't  be  jealous,  for 
I  must  not  love  you  —  therefore  don't  hope  —  but  don't 
despair  neither.  —  Oh,  they're  coming!  I  must  fly.       372 

[Exit. 

Mel.  [After  a  pause.]  So  then,  spite  of  my  care  and 
foresight  I  am  caught,  caught  in  my  security.  —  Yet 
this  was  but  a  shallow  artifice,  unworthy  of  my  Machia- 
velian  "  aunt:  there  must  be  more  behind,  this  is  but  the 
first  flash,  the  priming  of  her  engine;  destruction  follows 
hard,  if  not  most  presently  prevented. 


SCENE  I]  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  TJ 

Enter   Maskwell 

Mel.  Maskwell,  welcome!  thy  presence  is  a  view  of 
land,  appearing  to  my  shipwrecked  hopes;  the  witch  has 
raised  the  storm,  and  her  ministers  have  done  their  work; 
you  see  the  vessels  are  parted."  382 

Mask.  I  know  it;  I  met  Sir  Paul  towing  away  Cyn- 
thia. Come,  trouble  not  your  head,  I'll  join  you  to- 
gether ere  to-morrow  morning,  or  drown  between  you 
in  the  attempt. 

Mel.  There's  comfort  in  a  hand  stretched  out,  to  one 
that's  sinking,  though  ne'er  so  far  off. 

Mask.  No  sinking,  nor  no  danger.  Come,  cheer  up; 
why,  you  don't  know,  that  while  I  plead  for  you,  your 
aunt  has  given  me  a  retaining  fee?  —  Nay,  I  am  your 
greatest  enemy,  and  she  does  but  journey-work  under 
me.  303 

Mel.   Ha!  how's  this? 

Mask.  What  d'ye  think  of  my  being  employed  in  the 
execution  of  all  her  plots?  Ha!  ha!  ha!  by  Heaven  it's 
true!  I  have  undertaken  to  break  the  match,  I  have 
undertaken  to  make  your  uncle  disinherit  you,  to  get  you 
turned  out  of  doors;  and  to  —  ha!  ha!  ha!  I  can't  tell 
you  for  laughing.  —  Oh,  she  has  opened  her  heart  to  me 
—  I  am  to  turn  you  a  grazing,  and  to  —  ha!  ha!  ha! 
marry  Cynthia  myself;   there's  a  plot  for  you!  402 

Mel.  Ha!  Oh,  I  see,  I  see,  my  rising  sun!  light  breaks 
through  clouds  upon  me,  and  I  shall  live  in  day!  —  O  my 
Maskwell!  how  shall  I  thank  or  praise  thee?  Thou  hast 
outwitted  woman.  —  But  tell  me,  how  couldst  thou  thus 
get  into  her  confidence?  ha!  how?  —  But  was  it  her  con- 
trivance to  persuade  my  Lady  Plyant  to  this  extravagant 
belief?  409 

Mask.  It  was;  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  encouraged 
it  for  your  diversion :  though  it  made  you  a  little  uneasy 
for  the  present,  yet  the  reflection  of  it  must  needs  be 
entertaining.  —  I  warrant  she  was  very  violent  at  first. 


78  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  .[act  il 

Mel.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  aye,  a  very  fury;  but  I  was  most 
afraid  of  her  violence  at  last.  If  you  had  not  come  as 
you  did,  I  don't  know  what  she  might  have  attempted. 

Mask.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  I  know  her  temper.  —  Well,  you 
must  know,  then,  that  all  my  contrivances  were  but  bub- 
bles; till  at  last  I  pretended  to  have  been  long  secretly 
in  love  with  Cynthia;  that  did  my  business;  that  con-  [420 
vinced  your  aunt  I  might  be  trusted,  since  it  was  as  much 
my  interest  as  hers  to  break  the  match :  then,  she  thought 
my  jealousy  might  qualify  me  to  assist  her  in  her  revenge; 
and,  in  short,  in  that  belief,  told  me  the  secrets  of  her 
heart.  At  length  we  made  this  agreement,  if  I  accom- 
plish her  designs  (as  I  told  you  before)  she  has  engaged 
to  put  Cynthia  with  all  her  fortune  into  my  power. 

Mel.  She  is  most  gracious  in  her  favour!  —  Well,  and, 
dear  Jack,  how  hast  thou  contrived?  429 

Mask.  I  would  not  have  you  stay  to  hear  it  now;  for 
I  don't  know  but  she  may  come  this  way;  I  am  to  meet 
her  anon;  after  that,  I'll  tell  you  the  whole  matter;  be 
here  in  this  gallery  an  hour  hence,  by  that  time  I  imagine 
our  consultation  may  be  over. 

Mel.    I  will;    till  then  success  attend  thee.  [Exit. 

Mask.  Till  then,  success  will  attend  me;  for  when  I 
meet  you,  I  meet  the  only  obstacle  to  my  fortune.  —  Cyn- 
thia, let  thy  beauty  gild  my  crimes;  and  whatsoever  I 
commit  of  treachery  or  deceit,  shall  be  imputed  to  me  as  a 
merit.  —  Treachery!  what  treachery?  love  cancels  all  [440 
the  bonds  of  friendship,  and  sets  men  right  upon  their 
first  foundations.  —  Duty  to  kings,  piety  to  parents, 
gratitude  to  benefactors,  and  fidelity  to  friends,  are  differ- 
ent and  particular  ties :  but  the  name  of  rival  cuts  'em  all 
asunder,  and  is  a  general  acquittance.  Rival  is  equal; 
and  love,  like  death,  a  universal  leveller  of  mankind. 
Ha!  but  is  there  not  such  a  thing  as  honesty?  Yes,  and 
whosoever  has  it  about  him  bears  an  enemy  in  his  breast: 
for  your  honest  man,  as  I  take  it,  is  that  nice  scrupulous 
conscientious  person,  who  will  cheat  nobody  but  him-  [450 


SCENE  I]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  79 

self:  such  another  coxcomb  as  your  wise  man,  who  is  too 
hard  for  all  the  world,  and  will  be  made  a  fool  of  by  nobody 
but  himself:  ha!  ha!  ha!  well,  for  wisdom  and  honesty, 
give  me  cunning  and  hypocrisy;  oh,  'tis  such  a  pleasure  to 
angle  for  fair-faced  fools!  Then  that  hungry  gudgeon 
creduHty  will  bite  at  anything.  —  Why,  let  me  see,  I 
have  the  same  face,  the  same  words  and  accents,  when 
I  speak  what  I  do  think,  and  when  I  speak  what  I  do  not 
think  —  the  very  same  —  and  dear  dissimulation  is  the 
only  art  not  to  be  known  from  nature.  460 

Why  will  mankind  be  fools,  and  be  deceived? 
And  why  are  friends  and  lovers'  oaths  believed? 
When  each  who  searches  strictly  his  own  mind, 
May  so  much  fraud  and  power  of  baseness  find.      [Exit. 


ACT  THE   THIRD 

Scene  I 

The  Gallery  in  Lord  Touchwood's  House 

Enter  Lord  Touchwood  and  Lady  Touchwood 

Lady  Touch.  My  lord,  can  you  blame  my  brother 
Ply  ant,  if  he  refuse  his  daughter  upon  this  provocation? 
the  contract's  void  by  this  unheard  of  impiety. 

Lord  Touch.  I  don't  believe  it  true;  he  has  better 
principles  —  Pho,  'tis  nonsense!  Come,  come,  I  know 
my  Lady  Plyant  has  a  large  eye,  and  would  centre  every- 
thing in  her  own  circle.  'Tis  not  the  first  time  she  has 
mistaken  respect  for  love,  and  made  Sir  Paul  jealous 
of  the  civility  of  an  undesigning  person,  the  better  to 
bespeak  this  security  in  her  unfeigned  pleasures.  lo 

Lady  Touch.  You  censure  hardly,  my  lord;  mysister's 
honour  is  very  well  known. 

Lord  Touch.  Yes,  I  believe  I  know  some  that  have 
been  familiarly  acquainted  with  it.  This  is  a  little 
trick  wrought  by  some  pitiful  contriver,  envious  of  my 
nephew's  merit. 

Lady  Touch.  Nay,  my  lord,  it  may  be  so,  and  I  hope 
it  will  be  found  so:  but  that  will  require  some  time;  for, 
in  such  a  case  as  this,  demonstration  is  necessary. 

Lord  Touch.  There  should  have  been  demonstration  of 
the  contrary  too,  before  it  had  been  believed.  21 

Lady  Touch.    So  I  suppose  there  was. 

Lord  Touch.    How?    where?    when? 

Lady  Touch.   That  I  can't  tell;  nay,  I  don't  say  there 

80 


SCENE  I]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  8 1 

was.  I  am  willing  to  believe  as  favourably  of  my  nephew 
as  I  can. 

Lord  Touch.   I  don't  know  that.  [Half  aside. 

Lady  Touch.  How?  don't  you  believe  that,  say  you, 
my  lord? 

Lord  Touch.  No,  I  don't  say  so.  —  I  confess  I  am 
troubled  to  find  you  so  cold  in  his  defence.  31 

Lady  Touch.  His  defence!  bless  me,  would  you  have 
me  defend  an  ill  thing? 

Lord  Touch.    You  believe  it  then? 

Lady  Touch.  I  don't  know;  I  am  very  unwilling  to 
speak  my  thoughts  in  anything  that  may  be  to  my 
cousin's  disadvantage;  besides,  I  find,  my  lord,  you  are 
prepared  to  receive  an  ill  impression  from  any  opinion  of 
mine  which  is  not  consenting  with  your  own;  but  since 
I  am  like  to  be  suspected  in  the  end,  and  'tis  a  pain  any 
longer  to  dissemble,  I  own  it  to  you;  in  short,  I  do  be- 
lieve it,  nay,  and  can  believe  anything  worse,  if  it  were 
laid  to  his  charge.  —  Don't  ask  me  my  reasons,  my  lord; 
for  they  are  not  fit  to  be  told  you.  44 

Lord  Touch.  [Aside]  I'm  amazed,  here  must  be  some- 
thing more  than  ordinary  in  this.  —  [Aloud.]  Not  fit  to 
be  told  me,  madam?  you  can  have  no  interests  wherein 
I  am  not  concerned,  and  consequently  the  same  reasons 
ought  to  be  convincing  to  me  which  create  your  satis- 
faction or  disquiet.  50 

Lady  Touch.  But  those  which  cause  my  disquiet,  I 
am  willing  to  have  remote  from  your  hearing.  Good 
my  lord,  don't  press  me. 

Lord  Touch.    Don't  oblige  me  to  press  you. 

Lady  Touch.  Whatever  it  was,  'tis  past;  and  that  is 
better  to  be  unknown  which  cannot  be  prevented; 
therefore  let  me  beg  you  to  rest  satisfied. 

Lord  Touch.    When  you  have  told  me,  I  will. 

Lady  Touch.   You  won't. 

Lord  Touch.    By  my  life,  my  dear,  I  will.  60 

Lady  Touch.    What  if  you  can't? 

CONGREVE  —  6 


82  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  hi 

Lord  Touch.  How?  then  I  must  know,  nay  I  will:  no 
more  trifling. — I  charge  you  tell  me!  —  by  all  our 
mutual  peace  to  come!  upon  your  duty!  — 

Lady  Touch.  Nay,  my  lord,  you  need  say  no  more,  to 
make  me  lay  my  heart  before  you,  but  don't  be  thus 
transported;  compose  yourself;  it  is  not  of  concern  to 
make  you  lose  one  minute's  temper.  'Tis  not  indeed, 
my  dear.  Nay,  by  this  kiss,  you  shan't  be  angry.  O 
Lord,  I  wish  I  had  not  told  you  anything!  —  Indeed,  my 
lord,  you  have  frighted  me.  Nay,  look  pleased,  I'll  tell 
you.  72 

Lord  Touch.    Well,  well. 

Lady  Touch.  Nay,  but  will  you  be  calm?  —  indeed  it's 
nothing  but  — 

Lord  Touch.    But  what? 

Lady  Touch.  But  will  you  promise  me  not  to  be  angry? 
—  nay,  you  must  —  not  to  be  angry  with  Mellefont?  —  I 
dare  swear  he's  sorry;  and  were  it  to  do  again,  would 
not  —  80 

Lord  Touch.  Sorry,  for  what?  Death,  you  rack  me 
with  delay! 

Lady  Touch.  Nay,  no  great  matter,  only  —  well,  I 
have  your  promise  —  pho,  why  nothing,  only  your 
nephew  had  a  mind  to  amuse  himself  sometimes  with  a 
little  gallantry  towards  me.  Nay,  I  can't  think  he 
meant  anything  seriously,  but  methought  it  looked 
oddly. 

Lord  Touch.   Confusion  and  hell,  what  do  I  hear!   89 

Lady  Touch.  Or,  maybe,  he  thought  he  was  not 
enough  akin  to  me,  upon  your  account,  and  had  a  mind 
to  create  a  nearer  relation  on  his  own;  a  lover,  you  know, 
my  lord  —  ha!  ha!  ha!  Well,  but  that's  all  —  now,  you 
have  it.  Well,  remember  your  promise,  my  lord,  and 
don't  take  any  notice  of  it  to  him. 

Lord  Touch.   No,  no,  no  —  damnation! 

Lady  Touch.  Nay,  I  swear  you  must  not!  —  A  Uttle 
harmless  mirth  —  only  misplaced,  that's  all;    but  if  it 


SCENE  I]  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  83 

were  more,  'tis  over  now,  and  all's  well.  For  my  part, 
I  have  forgot  it;  and  so  has  he,  I  hope;  for  I  have  not 
heard  anything  from  him  these  two  days.  lor 

Lord  Touch.  These  two  days!  is  it  so  fresh?  Un- 
natural villain!  Death,  I'll  have  him  stripped  and 
turned  naked  out  of  my  doors  this  moment,  and  let  him 
rot  and  perish,  incestuous  brute! 

Lady  Touch.  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  my  lord!  you'll 
ruin  me  if  you  take  such  public  notice  of  it,  it  will  be  a 
town-talk :  consider  your  own  and  my  honour  —  nay,  I 
told  you,  you  would  not  be  satisfied  when  you  knew  it. 

Lord  Touch.  Before  I've  done  I  will  be  satisfied.  Un- 
grateful monster,  how  long  —  m 

Lady  Touch.  Lord,  I  don't  know!  I  wish  my  lips  had 
grown  together  when  I  told  you.  —  Almost  a  twelve- 
month. —  Nay,  I  won't  tell  you  any  more,  till  you  are 
yourself.  Pray,  my  lord,  don't  let  the  company  see  you 
in  this  disorder.  —  Yet,  I  confess  I  can't  blame  you; 
for  I  think  I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  Hfe.  —  Who 
would  have  thought  my  nephew  could  have  so  miscon- 
strued my  kindness?  But  will  you  go  into  your  closet, 
and  recover  your  temper?  I'll  make  an  excuse  of  sud- 
den business  to  the  company,  and  come  to  you.  Pray, 
good  dear  my  lord,"  let  me  beg  you  do  now:  I'll  come 
immediately,  and  tell  you  all;    will  you,  my  lord?      123 

Lord  Touch.   I  will  —  I  am  mute  with  wonder. 

Lady  Touch.  Well,  but  go  now,  here's  somebody 
coming. 

Lord  Touch.  Well,  I  go.  —  You  won't  stay?  for  I 
would  hear  more  of  this.  [Exit. 

Lady  Touch.   I  follow  instantly.  —  So. 

Enter  Maskwell 

Mask.  This  was  a  masterpiece,  and  did  not  need  my 
help  —  though  I  stood  ready  for  a  cue  to  come  in  and 
confirm  all,  had  there  been  occasion.  132 


84  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  hi 

Lady  Touch.    Have  you  seen  Mellefont? 

Mask.  I  have;  and  am  to  meet  him  here  about  this 
time. 

Lady  Touch.   How  does  he  bear  his  disappointment? 

Mask.  Secure  in  my  assistance,  he  seemed  not  much 
afflicted,  but  rather  laughed  at  the  shallow  artifice,  which 
so  little  time  must  of  necessity  discover.  Yet  he  is 
apprehensive  of  some  farther  design  of  yours,  and  has 
engaged  me  to  watch  you.  I  believe  he  will  hardly  be 
able  to  prevent  your  plot,  yet  I  would  have  you  use 
caution  and  expedition.  143 

Lady  Touch.  Expedition  indeed;  for  all  we  do,  must 
be  performed  in  the  remaining  part  of  this  evening,  and 
before  the  company  break  up;  lest  my  lord  should  cool, 
and  have  an  opportunity  to  talk  with  him  privately.  — 
My  lord  must  not  see  him  again. 

Mask.  By  no  means;  therefore  you  must  aggravate 
my  lord's  displeasure  to  a  degree  that  will  admit  of  no 
conference  with  him.  —  What  think  you  of  mentioning 
me?  152 

Lady  Touch.   How? 

Mask.  To  my  lord,  as  having  been  privy  to  Melle- 
font's  design  upon  you,  but  still  using  my  utmost  en- 
deavours to  dissuade  him,  though  my  friendship  and 
love  to  him  has  made  me  conceal  it;  yet  you  may  say, 
I  threatened  the  next  time  he  attempted  anything  of 
that  kind,  to  discover  it  to  my  lord. 

Lady  Touch.   To  what  end  is  this?  160 

Mask.  It  will  confirm  my  lord's  opinion  of  my  honour 
and  honesty,  and  create  in  him  a  new  confidence  in  me, 
which  (should  this  design  miscarry)  will  be  necessary  to 
the  forming  another  plot  that  I  have  in  my  head.  — 
[/l^irig.]     To  cheat  you  as  well  as  the  rest. 

Lady  Touch.  I'll  do  it  —  I'll  tell  him  you  hindered  him 
once  from  forcing  me. 

Mask.  Excellent!  your  ladyship  has  a  most  improv- 
ing fancy.     You  had  best  go  to  my  lord,  keep  him  as 


SCENE  I]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  85 

long  as  you  can  in  his  closet,  and  I  doubt  not  but  you  will 
mould  him  to  what  you  please;  your  guests  are  so 
engaged  in  their  own  follies  and  intrigues,  they'll  miss 
neither  of  you.  173 

Lady  Touch.  When  shall  we  meet?  —  At  eight  this 
evening  in  my  chamber;  there  rejoice  at  our  success,  and 
toy  away  an  hour  in  mirth. 

Mask.  I  will  not  fail.  [Exit  Lady  Touchwood.]  I 
know  what  she  means  by  toying  away  an  hour  well 
enough!  Pox! "  I  have  lost  all  appetite  to  her;  yet  she's 
a  fine  woman,  and  I  loved  her  once.  But  I  don't  know, 
since  I  have  been  in  great  measure  kept  by  her,  the 
case  is  altered;  what  was  my  pleasure  is  become  my 
duty:  and  I  have  as  little  stomach  to  her  now  as  if  I 
were  her  husband.  Should  she  smoke"  my  design  upon 
Cynthia,  I  were  in  a  fine  pickle.  She  has  a  damned  [185 
penetrating  head,  and  knows  how  to  interpret  a  coldness 
the  right  way;  therefore  I  must  dissemble  ardour  and 
ecstasy,  that's  resolved:  how  easily  and  pleasantly  is  that 
dissembled  before  fruition!  Pox  on't!  that  a  man  can't 
drink  without  quenching  his  thirst.  Ha!  yonder  comes 
Mellefont  thoughtful.  —  Let  me  think:  meet  her  at 
eight  —  hum  —  ha  —  by  Heaven,  I  have  it  —  if  I  can 
speak  to  my  lord  before.  —  Was  it  my  brain  or  Provi- 
dence? No  matter  which.  —  I  will  deceive  'em  all, 
and  yet  secure  myself:  'twas  a  lucky  thought!  Well, 
this  double-dealing  is  a  jewel.  Here  he  comes,  now 
for  me.  197 

Enter  Mellefont.       Maskwell  pretending  not  to  see 
him,  walks  by  him,  and  speaks,  as  it  were,  to  himself 

Mask.  Mercy  on  us!  what  will  the  wickedness  of  this 
world  come  to? 

Mel.  How  now,  Jack?  what,  so  full  of  contemplation 
that  you  run  over!  201 

Mask.   I'm  glad  you're  come,  for  I  could  not  contain 


86  THE  DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  in 

myself  any  longer;  and  was  just  going  to  give  vent  to  a 
secret,  which  nobody  but  you  ought  to  drink  down.  — 
Your  aunt's  just  gone  from  hence. 

Mel.  And  having  trusted  thee  with  the  secrets  of  her 
soul,  thou  art  villainously  bent  to  discover  'em  all  to 
me,  ha! 

Mask.  I'm  afraid  my  frailty  leads  that  way.  —  But  I 
don't  know  whether  I  can  in  honour  discover  'em  all.  210 

Mel.  All,  all,  man:  what!  you  may  in  honour  betray 
her  as  far  as  she  betrays  herself.  No  tragical  design  upon 
my  person,  I  hope? 

Mask.    No,  but  it's  a  comical  design  upon  mine. 

Mel.   What  dost  thou  mean? 

Mask.  Listen  and  be  dum.b,  we  have  been  bargaining 
about  the  rate  of  your  ruin. 

Mel.  Like-any  two  guardians  to  an  orphan  heiress.  — 
Well.  ,,9 

Mask.  And,  whereas  pleasure  is  generally  paid  with 
mischief,  what  mischief  I  do  is  to  be  paid  with  pleasure. 

Mel.  So  when  you've  swallowed  the  potion,  you 
sweeten  your  mouth  with  a  plura."^ 

Mask.  You  are  merry,  sir,  but  I  shall  probe  your  con- 
stitution. In  short,  the  price  of  your  banishment  is  to  be 
paid  with  the  person  of  — 

Mel.  Of  Cynthia,  and  her  fortune.  —  Why,  you  forget 
you  told  me  this  before. 

Mask.  No,  no.  —  So  far  you  are  right;  and  I  am,  as 
an  earnest  of  that  bargain,  to  have  full  and  free  posses- 
sion of  the  person  of  your  —  aunt.  231 

Mel.   Ha!  —  Pho,  you  trifle! 

Mask.  By  this  light,  I'm  serious;  all  raillery  apart  — 
I  knew  'twould  stun  you:  this  evening  at  eight  she  will 
receive  me  in  her  bedchamber. 

Mel.  Hell  and  the  devil!  is  she  abandoned  of  all 
grace?  —  why,  the  woman  is  possessed ! 

Mask.    Well,  will  you  go  in  my  stead? 

Mel.   By  Heaven,  into  a  hot  furnace  sooner! 


SCENE  II]  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  87 

Mask.  No,  you  would  not.  —  I  would  not  be  so  con- 
venient as  I  can  order  matters.  241 

Mel.    What  d'ye  mean? 

Mask.  Mean !  not  to  disappoint  the  lady,  I  assure  you. 
—  [Aside.]  Ha!  ha!  ha!  how  gravely  he  looks!  — 
[Aloud.]  Come,  come,  I  won't  perplex  you.  'Tis  the 
only  thing  that  Providence  could  have  contrived  to 
make  me  capable  of  serving  you,  either  to  my  inclina- 
tion or  your  own  necessity.  248 

Mel.    How,  how,  for  Heaven's  sake,  dear  Maskwell? 

Mask.  Why,  thus:  I'll  go  according  to  appointment; 
you  shall  have  notice  at  the  critical  minute  to  come  and 
surprise  your  aunt  and  me  together;  counterfeit  a  rage 
against  me,  and  I'll  make  my  escape  through  the  private 
passage  from  her  chamber,  which  I'll  take  care  to  leave 
open:  'twill  be  hard  if  then  you  can't  bring  her  to  any 
conditions.  For  this  discovery  will  disarm  her  of  all 
defence,  and  leave  her  entirely  at  your  mercy:  nay,  she 
must  ever  after  be  in  awe  of  you.  258 

Mel.  Let  me  adore  thee,  my  better  genius!  By 
Heaven,  I  think  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  fate  to  dis- 
appoint my  hopes!  —  My  hopes!  my  certainty! 

Mask.  Well,  I'll  meet  you  here  within  a  quarter  of 
eight,  and  give  you  notice. 

Mel.   Good  fortune  ever  go  along  with  thee !     [Exeunt. 


Scene  II 

The  same 

Mellefont  and  Careless  meeting 

Care.  Mellefont,  get  out  o'  th'  way,  my  Lady  Plyant's 
coming,  and  I  shall  never  succeed  while  thou  art  in  sight 
—  though  she  begins  to  tack  about;  but  I  made  love  a 
great  while  to  no  purpose. 


88  -      THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  hi 

Mel.  Why,  what's  the  matter?  she's  convinced  that  I 
don't  care  for  her. 

Care.  I  can't  get  an  answer  from  her  that  does  not 
begin  with  her  honour,  or  her  virtue,  her  rehgion,  or  some 
such  cant.  Then  she  has  told  me  the  whole  history  of 
Sir  Paul's  nine  years'  courtship;  how  he  has  lain  for  [lo 
whole  nights  together  upon  the  stairs  before  her  chamber 
door;  and  that  the  first  favour  he  received  from  her  was 
a  piece  of  an  old  scarlet  petticoat  for  a  stomacher,  which 
since  the  day  of  his  marriage  he  has,  out  of  a  piece  of 
gallantry,  converted  into  a  night-cap,  and  wears  it  still 
with  much  solemnity  on  his  anniversary  wedding-night. 

Aid.  That  I  have  seen,  with  the  ceremony  thereunto 
belonging:  for  on  that  night  he  creeps  in  at  the  bed's 
feet,  like  a  gulled  bassa  that  has  married  a  relation  of 
the  Grand  Signior,  and  that  night  he  has  his  arms  at  [20 
liberty.  Did  not  she  tell  you  at  what  a  distance  she 
keeps  him?  He  has  confessed  to  me  that  but  at  some 
certain  times,  that  is,  I  suppose,  when  she  apprehends 
being  with  child,  he  never  has  the  privilege  of  using 
the  familiarity  of  a  husband  with  a  wife.  He  was  once 
given  to  scrambling  with  his  hands  and  sprawling  in 
his  sleep;  and  ever  since  she  has  him  swaddled  up  in 
blankets,  and  his  hands  and  feet  swathed  down,  and  so 
put  to  bed;  and  there  he  lies  with  a  great  beard,  Hke  a 
Russian  bear  upon  a  drift  of  snow.  You  are  very  great 
with  him,  I  wonder  he  never  told  you  his  grievances: 
he  will,  I  warrant  you.  32 

Care.  Excessively  foolish!  —  But  that  which  gives  me 
most  hopes  of  her  is  her  telling  me  of  the  many  tempta- 
tions she  has  resisted. 

Mel.  Nay,  then  you  have  her;  for  a  woman's  brag- 
ging to  a  man  that  she  has  overcome  temptations,  is  an 
argument  that  they  were  weakly  offered,  and  a  challenge 
to  him  to  engage  her  more  irresistibly.  'Tis  only  an 
enhancing  the  price  of  the  commodity  by  telling  you  how 
many  customers  have  underbid  her.  41 


SCENE  II]  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  89 

Care.  Nay,  I  don't  despair:  but  still  she  has  a  grudg- 
ing to  you.  I  talked  to  her  t'other  night  at  my  Lord 
Froth's  masquerade,  when  I'm  satisfied  she  knew  me,  and 
I  had  no  reason  to  complain  of  my  reception;  but  I  find 
women  are  not  the  same  barefaced  and  in  masks;  and 
a  visor  disguises  their  inclinations  as  much  as  their  faces. 

Mel.  'Tis  a  mistake,  for  women  may  most  properly  be 
said  to  be  unmasked  when  they  wear  visors;  for  that 
secures  them  from  blushing,  and  being  out  of  counte-  [so 
nance;  and  next  to  being  in  the  dark,  or  alone,  they  are 
most  truly  themselves  in  a  visor-mask.  —  Here  they  come, 
I'll  leave  you.  —  Ply  her  close,  and  by  and  by  clap  a  billet- 
doux  into  her  hand;  for  a  woman  never  thinks  a  man 
truly  in  love  with  her  till  he  has  been  fool  enough  to 
think  of  her  out  of  her  sight,  and  to  lose  so  much  time 
as  to  write  to  her.  [Exit. 

Enter  Sir  Paul  and  Lady  Plyant 

Sir  Paul.  Shan't  we  disturb  your  meditation,  Mr. 
Careless?  you  would  be  private? 

Care.  You  bring  that  along  with  you.  Sir  Paul,  that 
shall  be  always  welcome  to  my  privacy.  61 

Sir  Paul.  O  sweet  sir,  you  load  your  humble  servants, 
both  me  and  my  wife,  with  continual  favours. 

Lady  Ply.  Sir  Paul,  what  a  phrase  was  there!  You 
will  be  making  answers,  and  taking  that  upon  you  which 
ought  to  lie  upon  me !  —  That  you  should  have  so  little 
breeding  to  think  Mr.  Careless  did  not  apply  himself 
to  me!  Pray  what  have  you  to  entertain  anybody's 
privacy?  I  swear,  and  declare  in  the  face  of  the  world, 
I'm  ready  to  blush  for  your  ignorance.  70 

Sir  Paul.  [Aside  to  Lady  Plyant.]  I  acquiesce,  my 
lady;   but  don't  snub  so  loud. 

Lady  Ply.  Mr.  Careless,  if  a  person  that  is  wholly 
illiterate  might  be  supposed  to  be  capable  of  being 
qualified  to  make  a  suitable  return  to  those  obligations 


90  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  hi 

which  you  are  pleased  to  confer  upon  one  that  is  wholly 
incapable  of  being  qualified  in  all  those  circumstances, 
I'm  sure  I  should  rather  attempt  it  than  anything  in  the 
world;  [Curtsies]  for  I'm  sure  there's  nothing  in  the 
world  that  I  would  rather.  [Curtsies.]  But  I  know  Mr. 
Careless  is  so  great  a  critic  and  so  fine  a  gentleman,  that 
it  is  impossible  for  me  —  82 

Care.    O  Heavens,  madam,  you  confound  me! 

Sir  Paul.    Gadsbud,  she's  a  fine  person. 

Lady  Ply.  O  Lord,  sir,  pardon  me,  we  women  have 
not  those  advantages.  I  know  my  own  imperfections.  — 
But  at  the  same  time  you  must  give  me  leave  to  declare 
in  the  face  of  the  world,  that  nobody  is  more  sensible  of 
favours  and  things;  for,  with  the  reserve  of  my  honour, 
I  assure  you,  Mr.  Careless,  I  don't  know  anything  in  the 
world  I  would  refuse  to  a  person  so  meritorious.  —  You'll 
pardon  my  want  of  expression.  gz 

Care.  Oh,  your  ladyship  is  abounding  in  all  excellence, 
particularly  that  of  phrase. 

Lady  Ply.   You  are  so  obliging,  sir. 

Care.    Your  ladyship  is  so  charming. 

Sir  Paul.    So,  now,  now;    now,  my  lady. 

Lady  Ply.   So  well-bred. 

Care.    So  surprising. 

Lady  Ply.  So  well-dressed,  so  bonne  mine,"  so  elo- 
quent, so  unaffected,  so  easy,  so  free,  so  particular,  so 
agreeable  —  102 

Sir  Paul.   Aye,  so,  so,  there. 

Care.   0  Lord,  I  beseech  you,  madam!  don't  — 

Lady  Ply.  So  gay,  so  graceful,  so  good  teeth,  so  fine 
shape,  so  fine  limbs,  so  fine  linen,  and  I  don't  doubt  but 
you  have  a  very  good  skin,  sir. 

Care.  For  Heaven's  sake,  madam!  —  I'm  quite  out 
of  countenance. 

Sir  Paid.  And  my  lady's  quite  out  of  breath:  or  else 
you  should  hear  —  Gadsbud,  you  may  talk  of  my 
Lady  Froth!  112 


SCEXE  II]  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  91 

Care.  Oh,  fie!  fie!  not  to  be  named  of  a  day,  —  My 
Lady  Froth  is  very  well  in  her  accomplishments  —  but 
it  is  when  my  Lady  Plyant  is  not  thought  of  —  if  that 
can  ever  be. 

Lady  Ply.  Oh,  you  overcome  me!  —  that  is  so  exces- 
sive. 

Sir  Paul.    Nay,  I  swear  and  vow,  that  was  pretty. 

Care.  Oh,  Sir  Paul,  you  are  the  happiest  man  alive! 
Such  a  lady!  that  is  the  envy  of  her  own  sex,  and  the 
admiration  of  ours.  122 

Sir  Paul.  Your  humble  servant.  I  am,  I  thank 
Heaven,  in  a  fine  way  of  living,  as  I  may  say,  peacefully 
and  happily,  and  I  think  need  not  envy  any  of  my 
neighbours,  blessed  be  Providence!  —  Aye,  truly,  Mr. 
Careless,  my  lady  is  a  great  blessing,  a  fine,  discreet, 
well-spoken  woman  as  you  shall  see,  if  it  becomes  me 
to  say  so,  and  we  live  very  comfortably  together;  she 
is  a  little  hasty  sometimes,  and  so  am  I;  but  mine's 
soon  over,  and  then  I'm  so  sorry.  —  O  Mr.  Careless,  if 
it  were  not  for  one  thing  —  132 

Enter  Boy  with  a  letter  which  he  takes  to  Sir  Paul 

Lady  Ply.  [To  Boy.]  How  often  have  you  been  told 
of  that,  you  jackanapes! 

Sir  Paul.  Gad  so,  gadsbud!  —  Tim,  carry  it  to  my 
lady;  you  should  have  carried  it  to  my  lady  first. 

Boy.    'Tis  directed  to  your  worship. 

Sir  Paul.  Well,  well,  my  lady  reads  all  letters  first.  — 
Child,  do  so  no  more;  d'ye  hear,  Tim!  139 

Boy.   No,  an't  please  you."^  [Exit  Boy. 

^^V  Paid.  [To  Careless.]  A  humour  of  my  wife's; 
you  know  women  have  little  fancies.  —  But,  as  I  was  tell- 
ing you,  Mr.  Careless,  if  it  were  not  for  one  thing,  I 
should  think  myself  the  happiest  man  in  the  world;  in- 
deed that  touches  me  near,  very  near. 

Care.   What  can  that  be,  Sir  Paul? 


92  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  in 

Sir  Paul.  Why,  I  have,  I  thank  Heaven,  a  very  plen- 
tiful fortune,  a  good  estate  in  the  country,  some  houses 
in  town,  and  some  money,  a  pretty  tolerable  personal 
estate;  and  it  is  a  great  grief  to  me,  indeed  it  is,  Mr.  [150 
Careless,  that  I  have  not  a  son  to  inherit  this.  —  'Tis 
true,  I  have  a  daughter,  and  a  fine  dutiful  child  she  is, 
though  I  say  it,  blessed  be  Providence!  I  may  say;  for 
indeed,  Mr.  Careless,  I  am  mightily  beholden  to  Provi- 
dence —  a  poor  unworthy  sinner.  —  But  if  I  had  a  son 

—  ah,  that's  my  affliction,  and  my  only  affliction!  In- 
deed, I  cannot  refrain  tears  when  it  comes  into  my  mind. 

[Cries. 
Care.    Why,  methinks,  that  might  be  easily  remedied 

—  my  lady  is  a  fine,  likely  woman.  159 
Sir  Paul.   Oh,  a  fine,  likely  woman  as  you  shall  see  in 

a  summer's  day!  Indeed  she  is,  Mr.  Careless,  in  all 
respects. 

Care.  And  I  should  not  have  taken  you  to  have  been 
so  old  — 

Sir  Paul.  Alas!  that's  not  it,  Mr.  Careless;  ah!  that's 
not  it;  no,  no,  you  shoot  wide  of  the  mark  a  mile; 
indeed  you  do;  that's  not  it,  Mr.  Careless;  no,  no, 
that's  not  it. 

Care.    No!   what  can  be  the  matter  then?  169 

Sir  Paul.  You'll  scarcely  believe  me,  when  I  shall  tell 
you.  My  lady  is  so  nice  —  it's  very  strange,  but  it's 
true  —  too  true  —  she's  so  very  nice,  that  I  don't  believe 
she  would  touch  a  man  for  the  world  —  at  least,  not 
above  once  a  year.  I'm  sure  I  have  found  it  so;  and, 
alas!  what's  once  a  year  to  an  old  man,  who  would  do 
good  in  his  generation?  Indeed  it's  true,  Mr.  Careless, 
it  breaks  my  heart.  —  I  am  her  husband,  as  I  may  say; 
though  far  unworthy  of  that  honour,  yet  I  am  her  hus- 
band; but,  alas-a-day!  I  have  no  more  familiarity  with 
her  person,  as  to  that  matter,  than  with  my  own  mother 
—  no  indeed.  iSi 

Care.   Alas-a-day,  this  is  a  lamentable  story!  my  lady 


SCENE  II]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  93 

must  be  told  on't;    she  must  i'faith,  Sir  Paul;    'tis  an 
injury  to  the  world. 

Sir  Paul.  Aye,  would  to  Heaven  you  would,  Mr.  Care- 
less !  you  are  mightily  in  her  favour. 

Care.  I  warrant  you.  —  What,  we  must  have  a  son 
some  way  or  other! 

Sir  Paul.  Indeed,  I  should  be  mightily  bound  to  you, 
if  you  could  bring  it  about,  Mr.  Careless.  190 

Lady  Ply.  [Coming  forward.]  Here,  Sir  Paul,  it's  from 
your  steward;  here's  a  return  of  six  hundred  pounds; 
you  may  take  fifty  of  it  for  the  next  half-year. 

[Gives  him  the  letter. 

Enter  Lord  Froth  and  Cynthia 

Sir  Paul.  How  does  my  gir  ?  come  hither  to  thy 
father,  poor  lamb,  thou'rt  melancholic. 

Lord  Froth.  Heaven,  Sir  Paul,  you  amaze  me  of  all 
things  in  the  world !  —  You  are  never  pleased  but  when 
we  are  all  upon  the  broad  grin;  all  laugh  and  no  com- 
pany; ah,  then  'tis  such  a  sight  to  see  some  teeth  —  Sure, 
you're  a  great  admirer  of  my  Lady  Whifler,  Mr.  Sneer, 
and  Sir  Laurence  Loud,  and  that  gang.  201 

Sir  Paul.  I  vow  and  swear  she's  a  very  merry  woman, 
but  I  think  she  laughs  a  little  too  much. 

Lord  Froth.  Merry!  O  Lord,  what  a  character  that  is 
of  a  woman  of  quality!  —  You  have  been  at  my  Lady 
Whifler's  upon  her  day,  madam? 

Cyn.   Yes,  my  lord.  —  [Aside.]  I  must  humour  this  fool. 

Lord  Froth.  Well,  and  how?  hee!  what  is  your  sense 
of  the  conversation? 

Cyn.  Oh,  most  ridiculous!  a  perpetual  consort  of 
laughing  without  any  harmony;  for  sure,  my  lord,  to 
laugh  out  of  time  is  as  disagreeable  as  to  sing  out  of 
time  or  out  of  tune.  213 

Lord  Froth.  Hee!  hee!  hee!  right.  And  then,  my 
Lady  Whifler  is  so  ready;    she  always  comes  in  three 


94  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  hi 

bars  too  soon.  —  And  then,  what  do  they  laugh  at?  for 
you  know  laughing  without  a  jest  is  as  impertinent;  hee ! 
aSj  as 

Cyn.   As  dancing  without  a  fiddle. 

Lord  Froth.   Just,  i'faith!  that  was  at  my  tongue's  end. 

Cyn.  But  that  cannot  be  properly  said  of  them,  for  I 
think  they  are  all  in  good  nature  with  the  world,  and  only 
laugh  at  one  another;  and  you  must  allow  they  have  all 
jests  in  their  persons,  though  they  have  none  in  their 
conversation.  225 

Lord  Froth.  True,  as  I'm  a  person  of  honour.  —  For 
Heaven's  sake  let  us  sacrifice  'em  to  mirth  a  little. 

Enter  Boy,  and  whispers  Sir  Paul 

Sir  Paul.  Gads  so  —  Wife !  wife !  my  Lady  Plyant !  I 
have  a  word. 

Lady  Ply.  I'm  busy,  Sir  Paul,  I  wonder  at  your  im- 
pertinence! 231 

Care.  [Aside  to  Sir  Paul.]  Sir  Paul,  hark  ye,  I'm 
reasoning  the  matter  you  know.  —  [Aloud.]  Madam,  if 
your  ladyship  please,  we'll  discourse  of  this  in  the  next 
room. 

Sir  Paul.  Oh,  ho !  I  wish  you  good  success,  I  wish  you 
good  success.  —  Boy,  tell  my  lady,  when  she  has  done  I 
would  speak  with  her  below.  [Exeunt. 


Scene  III 

An  Apartment  in  Lord  Touchwood's  House 

Enter  Cynthia,  Lord  Froth,  Lady  Froth,  Brisk 

Lady  Froth.  Then  you  think  that  episode  between 
Susan,  the  dairymaid,  and  our  coachman,  is  not  amiss; 
you  know  I  may  suppose  the  dairy  in  town  as  well  as  in 
the  country. 


SCKNF.  Ill]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  95 

Brisk.  Incomparable,  let  me  perish!  —  But  then  being 
an  heroic  poem,  had  not  you  better  call  him  a  charioteer? 
charioteer  sounds  great;  besides,  your  ladyship's  coach- 
man having  a  red  face,  and  you  comparing  him  to  the 
sun;  and  you  know  the  sun  is  called  Heaven's  charioteer. 

Lady  Froth.  Oh,  infinitely  better!  I  am  extremely 
beholden  to  you  for  the  hint;  stay,  we'll  read  over  those 
half  a  score  lines  again.  [Pulls  out  a  paper.]  Let  me  see 
here,  you  know  what  goes  before  —  the  comparison,  you 
know.  14 

[Reads.]     "For  as  the  sun  shines  every  day, 

So,  of  our  coachman  I  may  say  — " 

Brisk.  I'm  afraid  that  simile  won't  do  in  wet  weather; 
because  you  say  the  sun  shines  every  day. 

Lady  Froth.  No,  for  the  sun  it  won't,  but  it  will  do  for 
the  coachman:  for  you  know  there's  most  occasion  for 
a  coach  in  wet  weather.  21 

Brisk.    Right,  right,  that  saves  all. 

Lady  Froth.  Then,  I  don't  say  the  sun  shines  all 
the  day,  but  that  he  peeps  now  and  then;  yet  he  does 
shine  all  the  day  too,  you  know,  though  we  don't  see 
him. 

Brisk.  Right,  but  the  vulgar  will  never  comprehend 
that. 

Lady  Froth.    Well,  you  shall  hear.  —  Let  me  see. 

[Ready.]     "For  as  the  sun  shines  every  day,  30 

So,  of  our  coachman  I  may  say. 
He  shows  his  drunken  fiery  face. 
Just  as  the  sun  does,  more  or  less." 

Brisk.  That's  right,  all's  well,  all's  well!  —  "More  or 
less.'' 

Lady  Froth.    [Reads.] 

"And  when  at  night  his  labour^ s  done, 
Then  too,  like  Heaven's  charioteer  the  sun  — " 


96  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  hi 

Aye,  "charioteer"  does  better, 

^^ Into  the  dairy  he  descends, 
And  there  his  ivhipping  and  his  driving  ends;        40 
There  he^s  secure  from  danger  of  a  bilk, 
His  fare  is  paid  him,  and  he  sets  in  milk." 

For  Susan,  you  know,  is  Thetis,  and  so  — 

Brisk.  Incomparably  well  and  proper,  egad!  —  But  I 
have  one  exception  to  make  —  don't  you  think  "  bilk  "  (I 
know  it's  good  rhyme),  but  don't  you  think  "bilk"  and 
"fare"  too  like  a  hackney-coachman? 

Lady  Froth.  I  swear  and  vow,  I  am  afraid  so. — And 
yet  our  Jehu  was  a  hackney-coachman  when  my  lord 
took  him.  50 

Brisk.  Was  he?  I'manswered,if  Jehu  was  a  hackney- 
coachman.  —  You  may  put  that  in  the  marginal  notes, 
though,  to  prevent  criticism.  —  Only  mark  it  with  a  small 
asterism,  and  say,  "Jehu  was  formerly  a  hackney-coach- 
man." 

Lady  Froth.  I  will;  you'd  oblige  me  extremely  to 
write  notes  to  the  whole  poem. 

Brisk.  With  all  my  heart  and  soul,  and  proud  of  the 
vast  honour,  let  me  perish! 

Lord  Froth.  Hee!  hee!  hee!  my  dear,  have  you 
done?  —  won't  you  join  with  us?  we  were  laughing  at  my 
Lady  Whifler  and  Mr.  Sneer.  62 

Lady  Froth.  Aye,  my  dear.  —  Were  you?  O  filthy  Mr. 
Sneer!  he's  a  nauseous  figure,  a  most  fulsamic  "  fop,  foh! 
—  He  spent  two  days  together  in  going  about  Covent 
Garden,  to  suit  the  lining  of  his  coach  with  his  com- 
plexion. 

Lord  Froth.  0  silly!  yet  his  aunt  is  as  fond  of  him  as 
if  she  had  brought  the  ape  into  the  world  herself. 

Brisk.  Who,  my  Lady  Toothless?  Oh,  she's  a  morti- 
fying spectacle;  she's  always  chewing  the  cud  like  an  old 
ewe.  72 

Cyn.   Fie,  Mr.  Brisk  !  eryngoes  °  for  her  cough. 


SCENE  III]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  97 

Lord  Froth.  I  have  seen  her  take  'em  half-chewed  out 
of  her  mouth,  to  laugh,  and  then  put  them  in  again  —  foh! 

Lady  Froth.    Foh! 

Lord  Froth.  Then  she's  always  ready  to  laugh  when 
Sneer  offers  to  speak,  and  sits  in  expectation  of  his  no 
jest,  with  her  gums  bare,  and  her  mouth  open  — 

Brisk.   Like  an  oyster  at  low  ebb,  egad — -Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Cyn.  [Aside.]  Well,  I  find  there  are  no  fools  so  in- 
considerable in  themselves,  but  they  can  render  other 
people  contemptible  by  exposing  their  infirmities.         83 

Lady  Froth.  Then  that  t'other  great  strapping  lady 
—  I  can't  hit  of  her  name  —  the  old  fat  fool  that  paints 
so  exorbitantly. 

Brisk.  I  know  whom  you  mean  —  but,  deuce  take  me! 
I  can't  hit  of  her  name  neither.  —  Paints,  d'ye  say?  why, 
she  lays  it  on  with  a  trowel.  —  Then  she  has  a  great  beard 
that  bristles  through  it,  and  makes  her  look  as  if  she  were 
plastered  with  lime  and  hair,  let  me  perish!  gi 

Lady  Froth.  Oh,  you  made  a  song  upon  her,  Mr. 
Brisk. 

Brisk.    He!   egad,  so  I  did  —  my  lord  can  sing  it. 

Cyn.    Oh,  good  my  lord,  let's  hear  it. 

Brisk.  'Tis  not  a  song  neither  —  it's  a  sort  of  an 
epigram,  or  rather  an  epigrammatic  sonnet;  I  don't  know 
what  to  call  it,  but  it's  satire.  —  Sing  it,  my  lord. 

Lord  Froth.    [Sings.] 

^^  Ancient  Phillishas  young  graces, 

^Tis  a  strange  thing,  but  a  true  one:  100 

Shall  I  tell  you  hoiv? 

"She  herself  makes  her  own  faces, 

And  each  morning  wears  a  new  one; 
Whereas  the  wonder  now!" 

Brisk.  Short,  but  there's  salt  in't;  my  way  of  writing, 
egad! 

CONGREVE  —  7  , 


98  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  in 

Enter  Footman 

Lady  Froth.   How  now? 

Foot.   Your  ladyship's  chair  is  come. 

Lady  Froth.   Is  nurse  and  the  child  in  it? 

Foot.   Yes,  madam.  [Exit. 

Lady  Froth.   Oh,  the  dear  creature!  let's  go  see  it.  m 

Lord  Froth.  I  swear,  my  dear,  you'll  spoil. that  child, 
with  sending  it  to  and  again  so  often:  this  is  the  seventh 
time  the  chair  has  gone  for  her  to-day. 

Lady  Froth.  Oh,  la!  I  swear  it's  but  the  sixth  —  and 
I  ha'n't  seen  her  these  two  hours.  —  The  poor  dear  crea- 
ture!—  I  swear,  my  lord,  you  don't  love  poor  little 
Sappho.  —  Come,  my  dear  Cynthia,  Mr.  Brisk,  we'll 
go  see  Sappho,  though  my  lord  won't. 

Cyn.   I'll  wait  upon  your  ladyship.  120 

Brisk.    Pray,  madam,  how  old  is  Lady  Sappho? 

Lady  Froth.  Three  c^uarters;  but  I  swear  she  has  a 
world  of  wit,  and  can  sing  a  tune  already.  —  My  lord, 
won't  you  go?  won't  you?  what,  not  to  see  Saph?  pray, 
my  lord,  come  see  little  Saph.  I  knew  you  could  not 
stay.  [Exeunt  Lord  and  Lady  Froth  and  Brisk. 

Cyn.  'Tis  not  so  hard  to  counterfeit  joy  in  the  depth 
of  affliction,  as  to  dissemble  mirth  in  company  of  fools.  — ■ 
Why  should  I  call  'em  fools?  the  world  thinks  better  of 
'em;  for  these  have  quality  and  education,  wit  and  fine 
conversation,  are  received  and  admired  by  the  world  —  if 
not,  they  like  and  admire  themselves.  —  And  why  is  not 
that  true  wisdom,  for  'tis  happiness?  And  for  aught  I 
know,  we  have  misapplied  the  name  all  this  while,  and 
mistaken  the  thing;   since  —  135 

//  happiness  in  self-content  is  placed, 

The  wise  are  wretched,  and  fools  only  blessed. 

[Exit. 


ACT  THE   FOURTH 

Scene  I 

The  Gallery  in  Lord  Touchwood's  House 
Enter  Mellefont  and  Cynthia 

Cyn.  I  heard  him  loud  as  I  came  by  the  closet  door, 
and  my  lady  with  him,  but  she  seemed  to  moderate  his 
passion. 

Mel.  Aye,  hell  thank  her,  as  gentle  breezes  moderate 
a  fire:  but  I  shall  counterwork  her  spells,  and  ride  the 
witch  in  her  own  bridle. 

Cyn.  It's  impossible;  she'll  cast  beyond  you  still. — 
I'll  lay  my  life  it  will  never  come  to  be  a  match. 

Mel.   What? 

Cyn.    Between  you  and  me.  lo 

Mel.    Whvso? 

Cyn.  My  mind  gives  me  it  won't  —  because  we  are 
both  willing;  we  each  of  us  strive  to  reach  the  goal, 
and  hinder  one  another  in  the  race;  I  swear  it  never  does 
well  when  the  parties  are  so  agreed.  —  For  when  people 
walk  hand  in  hand,  there's  neither  overtaking  nor  meet- 
ing: we  hunt  in  couples,  where  we  both  pursue  the  same 
game,  but  forget  one  another;  and  'tis  because  we  are  so 
near  that  we  don't  think  of  coming  together. 

Mel.  Hum,  'gad  I  believe  there's  something  in't  — 
marriage  is  the  game  that  we  hunt,  and  while  we  think 
that  we  only  have  it  in  view,  I  don't  see  but  we  have  it  in 
our  power.  23 

Cyn.   Within  reach;  for  example,  give  me  your  hand; 

99 


lOO  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  iv 

you  have  looked  through  the  wrong  end  of  the  perspec- 
tive "  all  this  while;  for  nothing  has  been  between  us  but 
our  fears. 

Mel.  I  don't  know  why  we  should  not  steal  out  of  the 
house  this  very  moment,  and  marry  one  another,  without 
consideration,  or  the  fear  of  repentance.  Pox  o'  fortune, 
portion,  settlements,  and  jointures!  31 

Cyn.  Aye,  aye,  what  have  we  to  do  with  'em?  —  you 
know  we  marry  for  love. 

Mel.   Love,  love,  downright,  very  villainous  love. 

Cyn.  And  he  that  can't  live  upon  love  deserves  to  die 
in  a  ditch.  Here,  then,  I  give  you  my  promise,  in  spite 
of  duty,  any  temptation  of  wealth,  your  inconstancy,  or 
my  own  inclination  to  change  — 

Mel.  To  run  most  wilfully  and  unreasonably  away 
with  me  this  moment,  and  be  married.  40 

Cyn.    Hold !  —  never  to  marry  anybody  else. 

Mel.  That's  but  a  kind  of  negative  consent.  —  Why, 
you  won't  balk  the  frolic? 

Cyn.  If  you  had  not  been  so  assured  of  your  own  con- 
duct I  would  not  —  but  'tis  but  reasonable  that  since  I 
consent  to  like  a  man  without  the  vile  consideration  of 
money,  he  should  give  me  a  very  evident  demonstration 
of  his  wit;  therefore  let  me  see  you  undermine  my  Lady 
Touchwood,  as  you  boasted,  and  force  her  to  give  her 
consent,  and  then  —  so 

Mel.   I'lldo't. 

Cyn.   And  I'lldo't. 

Mel.  This  very  next  ensuing  hour  of  eight  o'clock  is 
the  last  minute  of  her  reign,  unless  the  devil  assist  her  in 
propria  persona. 

Cyn.  Well,  if  the  devil  should  assist  her,  and  your  plot 
miscarry? 

Mel.   Aye,  what  am  I  to  trust  to  then?  58 

Cyn.  Why,  if  you  give  me  very  clear  demonstration 
that  it  was  the  devil,  I'll  allow  for  irresistible  odds.  But 
if  I  fiiid  it  to  be  only  chance,  or  destiny,  or  unlucky  stars, 


SCENE  I]  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  lOI 

or  anything  but  the  very  devil,  I  am  inexorable;  only 
still  I'll  keep  my  word,  and  live  a  maid  for  your  sake. 

Mel.  And  you  won't  die  one  for  your  own;  so  still 
there's  hope. 

Cyn.  Here's  my  mother-in-law,  and  your  friend  Care- 
less;  I  would  not  have  'em  see  us  together  yet.  67 

[They  retire. 

Enter  Careless  and  Lady  Plyant 

Lady  Ply.  I  swear,  Mr.  Careless,  you  are  very  allur- 
ing, and  say  so  many  fine  things,  and  nothing  is  so  mov- 
ing to  me  as  a  fine  thing.  Well,  I  must  do  you  this 
justice,  and  declare  in  the  face  of  the  world,  never  any- 
body gained  so  far  upon  me  as  yourself;  with  blushes 
I  must  own  it,  you  have  shaken,  as  I  may  say,  the  very 
foundation  of  my  honour.  — -  Well,  sure  if  I  escape  your 
importunities,  I  shall  value  myself  as  long  as  I  live,  I 
swear.  76 

Care.   And  despise  me.  [Sighing. 

Lady  Ply.  The  last  of  any  man  in  the  world,  by  my 
purity!  now  you  make  me  swear.  —  Oh!  gratitude  for- 
bid, that  I  should  ever  be  wanting  in  a  respectful  acknow- 
ledgment of  an  entire  resignation  of  all  my  best  wishes, 
for  the  person  and  parts  of  so  accomplished  a  person, 
whose  merit  challenges  much  more,  I'm  sure,  than  my 
iUiterate  phrases  can  description  — 

Care.  [In  a  whining  tone.]  Ah,  Heavens,  madam, 
you  ruin  me  with  kindness!  — 

Your  charming  tongue  pursues  the  victory  of  your  eyes, 

While  at  your  feet  your  poor  adorer  dies. 

Lady  Ply.    Ah,  very  fine!  89 

Care.  [Still  whining.]  Ah!  why  are  you  so  fair,  so  be- 
witching fair?  Oh,  let  me  grow  to  the  ground  here,  and 
feast  upon  that  hand!  Oh,  let  me  press  it  to  my  heart, 
my  trembling  heart !  The  nimble  movement  shall  instruct 
your  pulse,   and   teach  it   to  alarm   desire.  —  [Aside.] 


102  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  iv 

Zoons!  I'm  almost  at  the  end  of  my  cant  if  she  does  not 
yield  quickly. 

Lady  Ply.  Oh,  that's  so  passionate  and  line  I  cannot 
hear  it  —  I  am  not  safe  if  I  stay,  and  must  leave  you.  qS 

Care.  And  must  you  leave  me!  rather  let  me  languish 
out  a  wretched  Hfe,  and  breathe  my  soul  beneath  your 
feet!  —  [Aside.]  I  must  say  the  same  thing  over  again, 
and  can't  help  it. 

Lady  Ply.  I  swear  I'm  ready  to  languish  too.  —  O  my 
honour!  whither  is  it  going?  I  protest  you  have  given 
me  the  palpitation  of  the  heart. 

Care.    Can  you  be  so  cruel? 

Lady  Ply.  Oh,  rise,  I  beseech  you !  say  no  more  till  you 
rise.  —  Why  did  you  kneel  so  long?  I  swear  I  was  so 
transported  I  did  not  see  it.  —  Well,  to  show  you  how  far 
you  have  gained  upon  me,  I  assure  you,  if  Sir  Paul 
should  die,  of  all  mankind  there's  none  I'd  sooner  make 
my  second  choice.  112 

Care.  0  Heaven!  I  can't  outlive  this  night  without 
your  favour!  —  I  feel  my  spirits  faint,  a  general  dampness 
overspreads  my  face,  a  cold  deadly  dew  already  vents 
through  all  my  pores,  and  will  to-morrow  wash  me  for 
ever  from  your  sight,  and  drown  me  in  my  tomb. 

Lady  Ply.  Oh,  you  have  conquered,  sweet,  melting, 
moving  sir,  you  have  conquered !  What  heart  of  marble 
can  refrain  to  weep,  and  yield  to  such  sad  sayings!      120 

[Cries. 

Care.  I  thank  Heaven  they  are  the  saddest  that  I  ever 
said.  —  Oh!  —  [Aside.]   I  shall  never  contain  laughter. 

Lady  Ply.  Oh,  I  yield  myself  all  up  to  your  uncon- 
trollable embraces!  —  Say,  thou  dear,  dying  man,  when, 
where,  and  how?  —  Ah,  there's  Sir  Paul! 

Care.  'Slife,  yonder's  Sir  Paul;  but  if  he  were  not 
come,  I'm  so  transported  I  cannot  speak.  —  This  note 
will  inform  you.  [Gives  her  a  note.     Exeunt. 


SCENE  II]  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  IO3 

Scene  II 
An  Apartment  in  Lord  Touchwood's  House 
Enter  Lady  Plyant,  Sir  Paul,  and  Cynthia 

Sir  Paul.  Thou  art  my  tender  lambkin,  and  shalt  do 
what  thou  wilt.  —  But  endeavour  to  forget  this  Melle- 
font. 

Cyn.  I  would  obey  you  to  my  power,  sir;  but  if  I 
have  not  him,  I  have  sworn  never  to  marry. 

Sir  Paul.  Never  to  marry!  Heavens  forbid!  Must  I 
neither  have  sons  nor  grandsons?  Must  the  family  of  the 
Ply  ants  be  utterly  extinct  for  want  of  issue  male?  Oh, 
impiety!  But  did  j^ou  swear?  did  that  sweet  creature 
swear?  ha!  how  durst  you  swear  without  my  consent; 
ah,  gadsbud,  who  am  I?  n 

Cyn.  Pray,  don't  be  angry,  sir:  when  I  swore,  I  had 
your  consent,  and  therefore  I  swore. 

Sir  Paul.  Why,  then,  the  revoking  my  consent  does 
annul,  or  make  of  non-effect,  your  oath;  so  you  may  un- 
swear  it  again  —  the  law  will  allow  it. 

Cyn.   Aye,  but  my  conscience  never  will. 

Sir  Paul.  Gadsbud,  no  matter  for  that,  conscience  and 
law  never  go  together,  you  must  not  expect  that.  ig 

Lady  Ply.  Aye,  but  Sir  Paul,  I  conceive  if  she  has 
sworn,  d'ye  mark  me,  if  she  has  once  sworn,  it  is  most 
unchristian,  inhuman,  and  obscene,  that  she  should  break 
it.  —  [Aside]  I'll  make  up  the  match  again,  because 
Mr.  Careless  said  it  would  oblige  him. 

Sir  Paul.  Does  your  ladyship  conceive  so?  —  Why,  I 
was  of  that  opinion  once  too.  —  JSTay,  if  your  ladyship 
conceive  so,  I'm  of  that  opinion  again;  but  I  can  neither 
iind  my  lord  nor  my  lady,  to  know  what  they  intend. 

iMdy  Ply.  I'm  satisfied  that  my  cousin  Mellefont  has 
been  much  wronged.  30 


104  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  iv 

Cyn.  [Aside.]  I'm  amazed  to  find  her  of  our  side,  for 
I'm  sure  she  loved  him. 

Lady  Ply.  I  know  my  Lady  Touchwood  has  no  kind- 
ness for  him;  and  besides  I  have  been  informed  by  Mr. 
Careless  that  Mellefont  had  never  any  more  than  a  pro- 
found respect.  —  That  he  has  owned  himself  to  be  my 
admirer,  'tis  true;  but  he  was  never  so  presumptuous 
to  entertain  any  dishonourable  notions  of  things;  so 
that  if  this  be  made  plain,  I  don't  see  how  my  daughter 
can  in  conscience  or  honour,  or  anything  in  the  world  — 

Sir  Paul.  Indeed,  if  this  be  made  plain,  as  my  lady 
your  mother  says,  child  —  42 

Lady  Ply.  Plain!  I  was  informed  of  it  by  Mr.  Care- 
less —  and  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Careless  is  a  person  —  that 
has  a  most  extraordinary  respect  and  honour  for  you.  Sir 
Paul. 

Cyn.  [Aside.]  And  for  your  ladyship  too,  I  believe,  or 
else  you  had  not  changed  sides  so  soon  —  now  I  begin  to 
find  it. 

Sir  Paul.  I  am  much  obliged  to  Mr.  Careless;  really, 
he  is  a  person  that  I  have  a  great  value  for,  not  only  for 
that,  but  because  he  has  a  great  veneration  for  your 
ladyship.  zi 

Lady  Ply.  Oh,  'las !  no  indeed,  Sir  Paul ;  'tis  upon  your 
account. 

Sir  Paul.  No,  I  protest  and  vow,  I  have  no  title  to  his 
esteem,  but  in  having  the  honour  to  appertain  in  some 
measure  to  your  ladyship,  that's  all. 

Lady  Ply.  Oh,  la,  now!  I  swear  and  declare,  it  shan't 
be  so;  you're  too  modest.  Sir  Paul.  60 

Sir  Paul.  It  becomes  me,  when  there  is  any  compari- 
son made  between  — 

Lady  Ply.  Oh,  fie,  f^e.  Sir  Paul !  you'll  put  me  out  of 
countenance  —  your  very  obedient  and  affectionate  wife; 
that's  all,  and  highly  honoured  in  that  title. 

Sir  Paul.  Gadsbud,  I'm  transported!  Give  me  leave 
to  kiss  your  ladyship's  hand. 


SCENE  11]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  I05 

Cyn.  [Aside.]  That  my  poor  father  should  be  so 
very  silly.  69 

Lady  Ply.   My  lip,  indeed,  Sir  Paul,  I  swear  you  shall. 

[He  kisses  her  and  bows  very  low. 

Sir  Paul.  I  humbly  thank  your  ladyship.  —  [Aside.] 
I  don't  know  whether  I  fly  on  ground,  or  walk  in  air.  — 
Gadsbud!  she  was  never  thus  before.  —  Well,  I  must 
own  myself  the  most  beholden  to  Mr.  Careless.  —  As 
sure  as  can  be  this  is  all  his  doing  —  something  that 
he  has  said  —  well,  'tis  a  rare  thing  to  have  an  ingenious 
friend.  —  [Aloud.]  Well,  your  ladyship  is  of  opinion  that 
the  match  may  go  forward? 

Lady  Ply.  By  all  means;  Mr.  Careless  has  satisfied 
me  of  the  matter.  80 

Sir  Paul.  Well,  why  then,  lamb,  you  may  keep  your 
oath,  but  have  a  care  of  making  rash  vows;  come  hither 
to  me,  and  kiss  papa. 

Lady  Ply.  [Aside.]  I  swear  and  declare,  I'm  in  such  a 
twitter  to  read  Mr.  Careless's  letter,  that  I  can't  forbear 
any  longer.  —  But  though  I  may  read  all  letters  first 
by  prerogative,  yet  I'll  be  sure  to  be  unsuspected  this 
time.  —  [Aloud.]     Sir  Paul  ! 

Sir  Paul.    Did  your  ladyship  call?  89 

Lady  Ply.  Nay,  not  to  interrupt  you,  my  dear  —  only 
lend  me  your  letter,  which  you  had  from  your  steward 
to-day;  I  would  look  upon  the  account  again,  and  maybe 
increase  your  allowance. 

Sir  Paul.  There  it  is,  madam ;  do  you  want  a  pen  and 
ink?  [Bows  and  gives  the  letter. 

Lady  Ply.  No,  no,  nothing  else,  I  thank  you.  Sir  Paul. 
—  [Aside.]  So,  now  I  can  read  my  own  letter  under 
cover  of  his.  98 

Sir  Paul.  [To  Cynthia.]  He!  and  wilt  thou  bring  a 
grandson  at  nine  months'  end,  he!  —  a  brave  chopping 
boy?  I'll  settle  a  thousand  pound  a  year  upon  the  rogue, 
as  soon  as  ever  he  looks  me  in  the  face;  I  will,  gadsbud! 
I'm  overjoyed  to  think  I  have  any  of  my  family  that  will 


I06  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  iv 

bring  children  into  the  world.  For  I  would  fain  have 
some  resemblance  of  myself  in  my  posterity,  hey,  Thy? 
Can't  you  contrive  that  affair,  girl?  do,  gadsbud,  think 
on  thy  old  father,  he?  make  the  young  rogue  as  like  as 
you  can, 

Cyn.    I'm  glad  to  see  you  so  merry,  sir.  loo 

Sir  Paul.  Merry!  gadsbud,  I'm  serious;  I'll  give  thee 
five  hundred  pounds  for  every  inch  of  him  that  resembles 
me;  ah,  this  eye,  this  left  eye!  a  thousand  pound  for  this 
left  eye.  This  has  done  execution  in  its  time,  girl;  why 
thou,  hast  my  leer,  hussy,  just  thy  father's  leer  —  let  it 
be  transmitted  to  the  young  rogue  by  the  help  of  imagi- 
nation; why 'tis  the  mark  of  our  family,  Thy;  our  house 
is  distinguished  by  a  languishing  eye,  as  the  house  of 
Austria  is  by  a  thick  lip.  —  Ah!  when  I  was  of  your  age, 
hussy,  I  would  have  held  fifty  to  one  I  could  have  drawn 
my  own  picture.  —  Gadsbud!  I  could  have  done  —  not 
so  much  as  you  neither  —  but  —  nay,  don't  blush  —  121 
Cyn.  I  don't  blush,  sir,  for  I  vow  I  don't  understand  — 
Sir  Paul.  Pshaw!  pshaw!  you  fib,  you  baggage;  you 
do  understand,  and  you  shall  understand.  Come,  don't 
be  so  nice;  gadsbud,  don't  learn  after  your  mother-in-law 
my  lady  here:  marry.  Heaven  forbid  that  you  should 
follow  her  example!  That  would  spoil  all,  indeed.  Bless 
us,  if  you  should  take  a  vagary  and  make  a  rash  resolu- 
tion on  your  wedding  night  to  die  a  maid,  as  she  did,  all 
were  ruined,  all  my  hopes  lost!  —  My  heart  would  break, 
and  my  estate  would  be  left  to  the  wide  world,  he?  I 
hope  you  are  a  better  Christian  than  to  think  of  living  a 
nun;   he?     Answer  me.  133 

Cyn.  I'm  all  obedience,  sir,  to  your  commands. 
Lady  Ply.  [Aside.]  O  dear  Mr.  Careless!  I  swear  he 
writes  charmingly,  and  he  looks  charmingly,  and  he  has 
charmed  me,  as  much  as  I  have  charmed  him;  and  so 
I'll  tell  him  in  the  wardrobe  when  'tis  dark.  O  crimine ! " 
I  hope  Sir  Paul  has  not  seen  both  letters.  —  [Puts  the 
wrong  letter  hastily  up  and  gives  him  her  own.]     Sir  Paul, 


SCENE  II]  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  10/ 

here's  your  letter;  to-morrow  morning  I'll  settle  accounts 
to  your  advantage.  142 

Enter  Brisk 

Brisk.  Sir  Paul,  gadsbud,  you're  an  uncivil  person,  let 
me  tell  you,  and  all  that;  and  I  did  not  think  it  had  been 
in  you. 

Sir  Paul.  Oh,  la!  what's  the  matter  now?  I  hope  you 
are  not  angry,  Mr.  Brisk. 

Brisk.  Deuce  take  me,  I  believe  you  intend  to  marry 
your  daughter  yourself!  you're  always  brooding  over  her 
like  an  old  hen,  as  if  she  were  not  well-hatched,  egad,  he? 

Sir  Paul.  Good,  strange!  Mr.  Brisk  is  such  a  merry 
facetious  person,  he!  he!  he!  — No,  no,  I  have  done 
with  her,  I  have  done  with  her  now.  iS3 

Brisk.  The  fiddlers  have  stayed  this  hour  in  the  hall, 
and  my  Lord  Froth  wants  a  partner;  we  can  never  begin 
without  her. 

Sir  Paul.  Go,  go,  child,  go,  get  you  gone  and  dance 
and  be  merry.  I'll  come  and  look  at  you  by  and  by.  — 
Where's  my  son  Mellefont? 

Lady  Ply.   I'll  send  him  to  them,  I  know  where  he  is. 

Brisk.  Sir  Paul,  will  you  send  Careless  into  the  hall  if 
you  meet  him?  162 

Sir  Paul.  I  will,  I  will;  I'll  go  and  look  for  him  on 
purpose. 

[Exeunt  Sir  Paul  and  Lady  Plyant  and  Cynthia. 

Brisk.  So,  now  they  are  all  gone,  and  I  have  an  oppor- 
tunity to  practise.  —  Ah!  my  dear  Lady  Froth!  she's  a 
most  engaging  creature,  if  she  were  not  so  fond  of  that 
damned  coxcombly  lord  of  hers;  and  yet  I  am  forced  to 
allow  him  wit  too,  to  keep  in  with  him.  —  No  matter, 
she's  a  woman  of  parts,  and,  egad,  parts  will  carry  her.  [170 
She  said  she  would  follow  me  into  the  gallery.  —  Now 
to  make  my  approaches.  —  Hem,  hem!  —  [Bows.]  Ah, 
madam!  —  Pox  on't,  why  should  I  disparage  my  parts 
by  thinking  what  to  say?     None  but  dull  rogues  think; 


I08  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  iv 

witty  men,  like  rich  fellows,  are  always  ready  for  all 
expenses;  while  your  blockheads,  like  poor  needy  scoun- 
drels, are  forced  to  examine  their  stock,  and  forecast  the 
charges  of  the  day.  —  Here  she  comes,  I'll  seem  not  to 
see  her,  and  try  to  win  her  with  a  new  airy  invention  of 
my  own,  hem!  i8o 

Enter  Lady  Froth 

Brisk.    [Walks  about  singing.]     "  Fm  sick  with  love,^'  — 
ha!   ha!   ha!  —  " prithee  come  cure  me.'^ 
"I'm  sick  with  love,''  etc. 

0  ye  powers!  O  my  Lady  Froth!  my  Lady  Froth! 
my  Lady  Froth!  Heigho!  Break  heart!  Gods,  I  thank 
you!  [Stands  musing  with  his  arms  across. 

Lady  Froth.  O  Heavens,  Mr.  Brisk!  what's  the 
matter? 

Brisk.  My  Lady  Froth!  your  ladyship's  most  humble 
servant.  —  The  matter,  madam?  nothing,  madam,  noth- 
ing at  all,  egad.  I  was  fallen  into  the  most  agreeable 
amusement  in  the  whole  province  of  contemplation: 
that's  all.  —  [Aside.]  I'll  seem  to  conceal  my  passion, 
and  that  will  look  like  respect.  194 

Lady  Froth.  Bless  me!  why  did  you  call  out  upon  me 
so  loud? 

Brisk.  O  Lord,  I,  madam?  I  beseech  your  ladyship 
—  when? 

Lady  Froth.  Just  now  as  I  came  in:  bless  me!  why, 
don't  you  know  it?  200 

Brisk.    Not  I,  let  me  perish!     But  did  I?     Strange! 

1  confess  your  ladyship  was  in  my  thoughts;  and  I  was 
in  a  sort  of  dream  that  did  in  a  manner  present  a  very 
pleasing  object  to  my  imagination,  but  —  but  did  I, 
indeed?  —  To  see  how  love  and  murder  will  out!  But 
did  I  really  name  my  Lady  Froth? 

Lady  Froth.  Three  times  aloud,  as  I  love  letters!  — 
But  did  you  talk  of  love?  O  Parnassus!  who  would 
have  thought  Mr.  Brisk  could  have  been  in  love,  ha! 


SCENE  II]  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  IO9 

ha!  ha!  O  Heavens,  I  thought  you  could  have  had  no 
mistress  but  the  nine  Muses.  211 

Brisk.  No  more  I  have,  egad,  for  I  adore  'em  all  in 
your  ladyship.  —  Let  me  perish,  I  don't  know  whether  to 
be  splenetic  or  airy  upon't;  the  deuce  take  me  if  I  can 
tell  whether  I  am  glad  or  sorry  that  your  ladyship  has 
made  the  discovery. 

Lady  Froth.  Oh,  be  merry  by  all  means.  —  Prince 
Volscius  in  love!"   ha!   ha!  ha! 

Brisk.  O  barbarous,  to  turn  me  into  ridicule!  Yet, 
ha!  ha  I  ha!  —  the  deuce  take  me,  I  can't  help  laughing 
myself,  ha!  ha!  ha!  —  yet  by  Heavens!  I  have  a  vio- 
lent passion  for  your  ladyship,  seriously.  222 

Lady  Froth.    Seriously?   ha!   ha!   ha! 

Brisk.  Seriously,  ha!  ha!  ha!  Gad,  I  have,  for  all  I 
laugh. 

Lady  Froth.  Ha!  ha!  ha !  — What  d'ye  think  I  laugh 
at?  ha!  ha!  ha! 

Brisk.    Me,  egad,  ha!  ha! 

Lady  Froth.  No,  the  deuce  take  me  if  I  don't  laugh  at 
myself;  for  hang  me!  if  I  have  not  a  violent  passion  for 
Mr.  Brisk,  ha!   ha!   ha!  231 

Brisk.    Seriously? 

Lady  Froth.    Seriously,  ha!  ha!  ha! 

Brisk.  That's  well  enough;  let  me  perish,  ha!  ha!  ha! 
Oh,  miraculous!  what  a  happy  discovery;  ah,  my  dear 
charming  Lady  Froth! 

Lady  Froth.   O  my  adored  Mr.  Brisk!    [They  embrace. 

Enter  Lord  Froth 

Lord  Froth.  The  company  are  all  ready.  —  [Aside] 
How  now! 

Brisk.  [Aside  to  Lady  Froth.]  Zoons,  madam,  there's 
my  lord!  2^1 

Lady  Froth.  [Aside  to  Brisk.]  Take  no  notice  —  but 
observe  me  —  [Aloud.]     Now  cast  off,  and  meet  me  at  the 


no  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  iv 

lower  end  of  the  room,  and  then  join  hands  again;  I 
could  teach  my  lord  this  dance  purely,"  but  I  vow,  Mr. 
Brisk,  I  can't  tell  how  to  come  so  near  any  other  man. 
—  [They  pretend  to  practise  part  of  a  country  dance.] 
Oh,  here's  my  lord,  now  you  shall  see  me  do  it  with 
him. 

Lord  Froth.  [Aside.]  Oh,  I  see  there's  no  harm  yet  — 
but  I  don't  like  this  familiarity.  250 

Lady  Froth.  Shall  you  and  I  do  our  close  dance,  to 
show  Mr.  Brisk? 

Lord  Froth.    No,  my  dear,  do  it  with  him. 

Lady  Froth.  I'll  do  it  with  him,  my  lord,  when  you  are 
out  of  the  way. 

Brisk.  [Aside.]  That's  •  good,  egad,  that's  good! 
deuce  take  me,  I  can  hardly  hold  laughing  in  his  face! 

Lord  Froth.  Any  other  time,  my  dear,  or  we'll  dance 
it  below. 

Lady  Froth.   With  all  my  heart.  260 

Brisk.  Come,  my  lord,  I'll  wait  on  you  —  [Aside  to 
Lady  Froth.]     My  charming,  witty  angel! 

Lady  Froth.  [Aside  to  Brisk.]  We  shall  have  whisper- 
ing time  enough,  you  know,  since  we  are  partners. 


Scene  III 

The  Gallery  of  Lord  Touchwood's  House 

Enter  Lady  Plyant  and  Careless  meeting 

Lady  Ply.  O  Mr.  Careless!  Mr.  Careless!  I'm 
ruined!     I'm  undone! 

Care.    What's  the  matter,  madam? 

Lady  Ply.  Oh,  the  unluckiest  accident!  I'm  afraid  I 
shan't  live  to  tell  it  you. 

Care.   Heaven  forbid!  what  is  it? 

Lady  Ply.    I'm  in  such  a  fright !  the  strangest  quandary 


SCENE  III]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  1 1 1 

and  prsemunire ! "  I'm  all  over  in  a  universal  agitation,  1 
dare  swear  every  circumstance  of  me  trembles.  —  O  your 
letter,  poor  letter!  —  by  an  unfortunate  mistake,  I  have 
given  Sir  Paul  your  letter  instead  of  his  own.  " 

Care.   That  was  unlucky. 

Lady  Ply.  Oh,  yonder  he  comes  reading  of  it!  for 
Heaven's  sake  step  in  here  and  advise  me  quickly  before 
he  sees!  [Exeu7it. 

Enter  Sir  Paul  with  the  letter 

Sir  Paul.  O  Providence!  what  a  conspiracy  have  I 
discovered!  —  But  let  me  see  to  make  an  end  on't.  — 
Hum  —  [Reads.]  "  After  supper  in  the  wardrobe  by  the 
gallery,  if  Sir  Paul  should  surprise  us,  I  have  a  commis- 
sion from  him  to  treat  with  you  about  the  very  matter  [20 
of  fact."  Matter  of  fact!  very  pretty;  it  seems  then  I 
am  conducing  to  my  own  cuckoldom.  Why,  this  is  the 
very  traitorous  position  of  taking  up  arms  by  my  au- 
thority, against  my  person.  Well,  let  me  see  —  [Reads.] 
"Till  then  I  languish  in  expectation  of  my  adored 
charmer.  —  Dying  Ned  Careless."  Gadsbud,  would 
that  were  matter  of  fact  too!  Die  and  be  damned!  for 
a  Judas  Maccabeus  and  Iscariot  both  ! "  O  friendship! 
what  art  thou  but  a  name!  Henceforward  let  no  man 
make  a  friend  that  would  not  be  a  cuckold !  for  whom-  [30 
soever  he  receives  into  his  bosom  will  find  the  way  to  his 
bed,  and  there  return  his  caresses  with  interest  to  his 
wife.  Have  I  for  this  been  pinioned  night  after  night 
for  three  years  past?  have  I  been  swathed  in  blankets 
till  I  have  been  even  deprived  of  motion?  have  I  ap- 
proached the  marriage-bed  with  reverence  as  to  a  sacred 
shrine,  and  denied  myself  the  enjoyment  of  lawful 
domestic  pleasures  to  preserve  its  purity,  and  must  I 
now  find  it  polluted  by  foreign  iniquity?  O  my  Lady 
Plyant,  you  were  chaste  as  ice,  but  you  are  melted  now, 
and  false  as  water!  —  But  Providence  has  been  constant 


112  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  iv 

to  me  in  discovering  this  conspiracy;  still  I  ara  be-  J 
holden  to  Providence;  if  it  were  not  for  Providence,  ' 
sure,  poor  Sir  Paul,  thy  heart  would  break.  44 

Re-enter  Lady  Plyant 

Lady  Ply.  So,  sir,  I  see  you  have  read  the  letter.  — 
Well  now.  Sir  Paul,  what  do  you  think  of  your  friend 
Careless?  has  he  been  treacherous,  or  did  you  give  his 
insolence  a  hcence  to  make  trial  of  your  wife's  suspected 
virtue?  D'ye  see  here?  [Snatches  the  letter  as  in  anger.] 
Look,  read  it!  Gads  my  life,  if  I  thought  it  were  so,  I 
would  this  moment  renounce  all  communication  with 
you!  Ungrateful  monster!  he?  is  it  so?  aye,  I  see  it,  a 
plot  upon  my  honour ;  your  guilty  cheeks  confess  it.  Oh, 
where  shall  wronged  virtue  fly  for  reparation!  I'll  be 
divorced  this  instant! 

Sir  Paul.  Gadsbud!  what  shall  I  say?  This  is  the 
strangest  surprise!  Why,  I  don't  know  anything  at  all, 
nor  I  don't  know  whether  there  be  anything  at  all  in  the 
world  or  no.  S9 

Lady  Ply.  I  thought  I  should  try  you,  false  man!  I 
that  never  dissembled  in  my  life,  yet  to  make  trial  of  you, 
pretended  to  like  that  monster  of  inquity.  Careless,  and 
found  out  that  contrivance  to  let  you  see  this  letter; 
which  now  I  find  was  of  your  own  inditing  —  I  do, 
heathen,  I  do!  —  See  my  face  no  more,  I'll  be  divorced 
presently! 

^^V  Paul.  Oh,  strange,  what  will  become  of  me!  — 
I'm  so  amazed  and  so  overjoyed,  so  afraid,  and  so  sorry. 
—  But  did  you  give  me  this  letter  on  purpose,  he? 
Did  you?  70 

Lady  Ply.  Did  I!  do  you  doubt  me,  Turk,  Saracen? 
I  have  a  cousin  that's  a  proctor  in  the  Commons,"  I'll 
go  to  him  instantly. 

Sir  Paul.  Hold!  stay!  I  beseech  your  ladyship!  I'm 
so  overjoyed,  stay,  I'll  confess  all. 


SCENE  III]  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  II3 

Lady  Ply.    What  will  you  confess,  Jew? 

Sir  Paul.  Why  now,  as  I  hope  to  be  saved,  I  had  no 
hand  in  this  letter.  —  Nay  hear  me,  I  beseech  your  lady- 
ship :  the  devil  take  me  now  if  he  did  not  go  beyond  my 
commission.  —  If  I  desired  him  to  do  any  more  than 
speak  a  good  word  only  just  for  me;  gadsbud,  only  for 
poor  Sir  Paul,  I'm  an  x^nabaptist,  or  a  Jew,  or  what  you 
please  to  call  me.  &i 

Lady  Ply.   Why,  is  not  here  matter  of  fact? 

Sir  Paul.  Aye,  but  by  your  own  virtue  and  continency, 
that  matter  of  fact  is  all  his  own  doing.  —  I  confess  I  had 
a  great  desire  to  have  some  honours  conferred  upon  me, 
which  He  all  in  your  ladyship's  breast,  and  he  being  a 
well-spoken  man,  I  desired  him  to  intercede  for  me. 

Lady  Ply.  Did  you  so,  presumption!  —  Oh,  he  comes! 
the  Tarquin  comes !     I  cannot  bear  his  sight.      [Exit.   91 

Re-enter  Careless 

Care.  Sir  Paul,  I'm  glad  I've  met  with  you:  'gad,  I 
have  said  all  I  could,  but  can't  prevail.  —  Then  my 
friendship  to  you  has  carried  me  a  little  farther  in  this 
matter  — 

Sir  Paul.  Indeed!  —  Well,  sir. —  [Aside.]  I'll  dis- 
semble with  him  a  little.  97 

Care.  Why,  faith,  I  have  in  my  time  known  honest 
gentlemen  abused  by  a  pretended  coyness  in  their  wives, 
and  I  had  a  mind  to  try  my  lady's  virtue  —  and  when  I 
could  not  prevail  for  you,  'gad  I  pretended  to  be  in  love 
myself.  —  But  all  in  vain;  she  would  not  hear  a  word 
upon  that  subject;  then  I  writ  a  letter  to  her;  I  don't 
know  what  effects  that  will  have,  but  I'll  be  sure  to  tell 
you  when  I  do;  though,  by  this  light,  I  believe  her 
virtue  is  impregnable. 

Sir  Paul.  O  Providence!  Providence!  what  discov- 
eries are  here  made!  Why,  this  is  better  and  more 
miraculous  than  the  rest. 

CONGREVE  —  8 


114  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  iv 

Care.    What  do  you  mean?  no 

Sir  Paul.   I  can't  tell  you,    I'm  so  overjoyed;   come 

along  with  me  to  my  lady,  I  can't  contain  myself;  come, 

my  dear  friend. 

Care.    [Aside,]     So,  so,  so,  this  difficulty's  over. 
/  [Exeunt. 

Scene  IV 

The  Gallery  of  Lord  Touchwood's  House 

Enter  Mellefont,  Maskwell,  from  different  doors 

Mel.  Maskwell !  I  have  been  looking  for  you  —  'tis 
within  a  quarter  of  eight. 

Mask.  My  lady  has  just  gone  into  my  lord's  closet; 
you  had  best  steal  into  her  chamber  before  she  comes, 
and  lie  concealed  there,  otherwise  she  may  lock  the  door 
when  we  are  together,  and  you  not  easily  get  in  to  sur- 
prise us. 

Mel.   He!  you  say  true. 

Mask.  You  had  best  make  haste;  for  after  she  has 
made  some  apology  to  the  company  for  her  own  and  my 
lord's  absence  all  this  while,  she'll  retire  to  her  chamber 
instantly.  12 

Mel.    I  go  this  moment.     Now  Fortune,  I  defy  thee! 

[Exit. 

Mask.  I  confess  you  may  be  allowed  to  be  secure  in 
your  own  opinion;  the  appearance  is  very  fair,  but  I 
have  an  after-game  to  play  that  shall  turn  the  tables; 
and  here  comes  the  man  that  I  must  manage. 

Enter  Lord  Touchwood 

Lord  Touch.  Maskwell,  you  are  the  man  I  wished  to 
meet. 

Mask.  I  am  happy  to  be  in  the  way  of  your  lord- 
ship's commands.  21 


I 


\ 


SCENE  IV]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  II5 

Lord  Touch.  I  have  always  found  you  prudent  and 
careful  in  anything  that  has  concerned  me  or  my  family. 

Mask.  I  were  a  villain  else !  —  I  am  bound  by  duty  and 
gratitude,  and  my  own  inclination,  to  be  ever  your  lord- 
ship's servant. 

Lord  Touch.  Enough  —  you  are  my  friend;  I  know  it. 
Yet  there  has  been  a  thing  in  your  knowledge  which 
has  concerned  me  nearly,  that  you  have  concealed  from 
me.  30 

Mask.    My  lord! 

I^ord  Touch.  Nay,  I  excuse  your  friendship  to  my  un- 
natural nephew  thus  far  —  but  I  know  you  have  been 
privy  to  his  impious  designs  upon  my  wife.  This  eve- 
ning she  has  told  me  all;  her  good  nature  concealed  it  as 
long  as  was  possible;  but  he  perseveres  so  in  villainy 
that  she  has  told  me  even  you  were  weary  of  dissuading 
him,  though  you  have  once  actually  hindered  him  from 
forcing  her. 

Mask.  I  am  sorry,  my  lord.  I  can't  make  you  an  an- 
swer; this  is  an  occasion  in  which  I  would  willingly  be 
silent.  42 

Lord  Touch.  I  know  you  would  excuse  him;  and  I 
know  as  well  that  you  can't. 

Mask.  Indeed,  I  was  in  hopes  't  had  been  a  youthful 
heat  that  might  have  soon  boiled  over;  but  — 

Lord  Touch.    Say  on. 

Mask.  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,  my  Iprd  —  but  to 
express  my  concern;  for  I  think  his  frenzy  increases 
daily.  50 

Lord  Touch.  How!  give  me  but  proof  of  it,  ocular 
proof,  that  I  may  justify  my  dealing  with  him  to  the 
world,  and  share  my  fortunes. 

Mask.  O  my  lord!  consider  that  is  hard;  besides,  time 
may  work  upon  him:  then,  for  me  to  do  it!  I  have  pro- 
fessed an  everlasting  friendship  to  him. 

Lord  Touch.    He  is  your  friend,  and  what  am  I? 

Mask.   I  am  answered.  s8 


Il6  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  iv 

Lord  Touch.  Fear  not  his  displeasure;  I  will  put  you 
out  of  his  and  Fortune's  power;  and  for  that  thou  art 
scrupulously  honest,  I  will  secure  thy  fidelity  to  him,  and 
give  my  honour  never  to  own  any  discovery  that  you 
shall  make  me.  Can  you  give  me  a  demonstrative  proof? 
Speak. 

Mask.  I  wish  I  could  not!  —  To  be  plain,  my  lord,  I 
intended  this  evening  to  have  tried  all  arguments  to  dis- 
suade him  from  a  design  which  I  suspect;  and  if  I  had 
not  succeeded,  to  have  informed  your  lordship  of  what 
I  knew. 

Lord  Touch.  I  thank  you.  What  is  the  villain's 
purpose  ?  71 

Mask.  He  has  owned  nothing  to  me  of  late,  and  what 
I  mean  now  is  only  a  bare  suspicion  of  my  own.  If  your 
lordship  will  meet  me  a  quarter  of  an  hour  hence  there, 
in  that  lobby  by  my  lady's  bedchamber,  I  shall  be  able 
to  tell  you  more. 

Lord  Touch.   I  will. 

Mask.  My  duty  to  your  lordship  makes  me  do  a  severe 
piece  of  justice.  79 

Lord  Touch.  I  will  be  secret,  and  reward  your  honesty 
beyond  your  hopes.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  V 
Lady  Touchwood's  Chamber 

Enter  Mellefont 

Mel.  Pray  Heaven  my  aunt  keep  touch  with  her  assig- 
nation!—  Oh,  that  her  lord  were  but  sweating  behind 
this  hanging,  with  the  expectation  of  what  I  shall  see!  — 
Hist!  she  comes.  —  Little  does  she  think  what  a  mine  is 
just  ready  to  spring  under  her  feet.  But  to  my  post. 
[Conceals  himself  behind  the  hangings. 


SCENE  V]  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  II7 

Enter  Lady  Touchwood 

Lady  Touch.  'Tis  eight  o'clock:  methinks  I  should 
have  found  him  here.  Who  does  not  prevent  the  hour  of 
love  outstays  the  time;  for  to  be  dully  punctual,  is  too 
slow.  —  [To  Maskwell  entering.]  I  was  accusing  you 
of  neglect.  10 

Mask.  I  confess  you  do  reproach  me  when  I  see  you 
here  before  me;  but  'tis  lit  I  should  be  still  behindhand, 
still  to  be  more  and  more  indebted  to  your  goodness. 

Lady  Touch.  You  can  excuse  a  fault  too  well,  not  to 
have  been  to  blame.  —  A  ready  answer  shows  you  were 
prepared. 

Mask.  Guilt  is  ever  at  a  loss,  and  confusion  waits  upon 
it ;  when  innocence  and  bold  truth  are  always  ready  for 
expression  —  19 

Lady  Touch.  Not  in  love;  words  are  the  weak  support 
of  cold  indifference;    love  has  no  language  to  be  heard. 

Mask.  Excess  of  joy  has  made  me  stupid!  Thus  may 
my  lips  be  ever  closed.  —  [Kisses  her.]  And  thus  — 
oh,  who  would  not  lose  his  speech,  upon  condition  to 
have  joys  above  it? 

Lady  Touch.   Hold,  let  me  lock  the  door  first. 

[Goes  to  the  door. 

Mask.  [Aside.]  That  I  believed;  'twas  well  I  left  the 
private  passage  open. 

Lady  Touch.    So,  that's  safe. 

Mask.  And  so  may  all  your  pleasures  be,  and  secret 
as  this  kiss.  31 

Mel.  [Leaping  out.]  And  may  all  treachery  be  thus 
discovered. 

Lady  Touch.    Ah!  [Shrieks. 

Mel.   Villain!  [Ofers  to  draw. 

Mask.   Nay,  then,  there's  but  one  way.        [Runs  out. 

Mel.  Say  you  so,  were  you  provided  for  an  escape?  — ■ 
Hold,  madam,  you  have  no  more  holes  to  your  burrow, 
I'll  stand  between  you  and  this  sally-port. 


Il8  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  iv 

Lady  Touch.  Thunder  strike  thee  dead  for  this  deceit! 
Immediate  Hghtning  blast  thee,  me,  and  the  whole 
world!  —  Oh  I  I  could  rack  myself,  play  the  vulture  to 
my  own  heart,  and  gnaw  it  piecemeal,  for  not  boding 
to  me  this  misfortune!  44 

Mel.    Be  patient. 

Lady  Touch.    Be  damned! 

Mel.  Consider  I  have  you  on  the  hook;  you  will 
but  flounder  yourself  aweary,  and  be  nevertheless  my 
prisoner. 

Lady  Touch.  I'll  hold  my  breath  and  die,  but  I'll  be 
free.  51 

Mel.  O  madam,  have  a  care  of  dying  unprepared.  I 
doubt  you  have  some  unrepented  sins  that  may  hang 
heavy,  and  retard  your  flight. 

Lady  Touch.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do?  say?  whither  shall 
I  turn?     Has  hell  no  remedy? 

Mel.  None,  hell  has  served  you  even  as  Heaven  has 
done,  left  you  to  yourself.  — You're  in  a  kind  of  Erasmus' 
paradise ; "  yet,  if  you  please,  you  may  make  it  a  pur- 
gatory; and  with  a  little  penance  and  my  absolution,  all 
this  may  turn  to  good  account.  61 

Lady  Touch.  [Aside.]  Hold  in,  my  passion!  and  fall, 
fall  a  little,  thou  swelling  heart!  let  me  have  some  inter- 
mission of  this  rage,  and  one  minute's  coolness  to  dis- 
semble. [She  weeps. 

Mel.  You  have  been  to  blame  —  I  like  those  tears, 
and  hope  they  are  of  the  purest  kind  —  penitential 
tears. 

Lady  Touch.  Oh ,  the  scene  was  shifted  quick  before  me ! 
—  I  had  not  time  to  think  —  I  was  surprised  to  see  [70 
a  monster  in  the  glass,  and  now  I  find  'tis  myself.  Can 
you  have  mercy  to  forgive  the  faults  I  have  imagined, 
but  never  put  in  practice?  —  Oh,  consider,  consider  how 
fatal  you  have  been  to  me !  You  have  already  killed  the 
quiet  of  this  life.  The  love  of  you  was  the  first  wander- 
ing fire  that  e'er  misled  my  steps,  and  while  I  had  only 


SCENE  V]  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  II9 

that  in  view,  I  was  betrayed  into  unthought-of  ways 
of  ruin. 

Mel.    May  I  believe  this  true?  79 

I  Lady  Touch.  Oh,  be  not  cruelly  incredulous!  —  How- 
can  you  doubt  these  streaming  eyes?     Keep  the  severest 

;  eye  o'er  all  my  future  conduct;  and  if  I  once  relapse,  let 
me  not  hope  forgiveness,  'twill  ever  be  in  your  power  to 
ruin  me.  —  My  lord  shall  sign  to  your  desires;  I  will 
myself  create  your  happiness,  and  Cynthia  shall  be  this 
night  your  bride.  —  Do  but  conceal  my  failings,  and 
forgive. 

Mel.  Upon  such  terms,  I  will  be  ever  yours  in  every 
honest  way.  89 

Maskwell  softly  introduces  Lord  Touchwood 

Mask.  [To  Lord  Touchwood.]  I  have  kept  my  word, 
he's  here,  but  I  must  hot  be  seen.  [Exit. 

Lord  Touch.  [Aside.]  Hell  and  amazement!  she's  in 
tears. 

LMdy  Touch.  [Kneeling.]  Eternal  blessings  thank 
you!  —  [Aside.]  Ha!  my  lord  listening!  Oh,  Fortune 
has  o'erpaid  me  all,  all!  all's  my  own! 

Mel.    Nay,  I  beseech  you  rise. 

Lady  Touch.  Never,  never!  I'll  grow  to  the  ground, 
be  buried  quick  beneath  it,  ere  I'll  be  consenting  to  so 
damned  a  sin  as  incest!  unnatural  incest!  100 

Mel.    Ha! 

Lady  Touch.  O  cruel  man!  will  you  not  let  me  go? 
—  I'll  forgive  all  that's  past.  —  O  Heaven,  you  will  not 
ravish  me! 

Mel.    Damnation! 

Lord  Touch.  Monster!  dog!  your  life  shall  answer 
this  —  [Draws,  and  runs  to  Mellefont,  is  held  by  Lady 
Touchwood. 

Lady  Touch.  O  Heavens,  my  lord!  Hold,  hold,  for 
Heaven's  sake! 


I20  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  iv 

Mel.  [Aside.]  Confusion,  my  uncle!  Oh,  the  damned 
sorceress!  i„ 

Lady  Touch.  Moderate  your  rage,  good  my  lord!  he's 
mad,  alas,  he's  mad!  —  Indeed  he  is,  my  lord,  and  knows 
not  what  he  does.  —  See,  how  wild  he  looks! 

Mel.  By  Heaven  'twere  senseless  not  to  be  mad,  and 
see  such  witchcraft! 

Lady  Touch.    My  lord,  you  hear  him,  he  talks  idly. 

Lord  Touch.  Hence  from  my  sight,  thou  living  infamy 
to  my  name!  when  next  I  see  that  face  I'll  write  villain 
in't  with  my  sword's  point.  120 

Mel.  Now,  by  my  soul,  I  will  not  go  till  I  have  made 
known  my  wrongs!  —  nay,  till  I  have  made  known  yours, 
which  (if  possible)  are  greater  —  though  she  has  all  the 
host  of  hell  her  servants. 

Lady  Touch.  Alas,  he  raves!  talks  very  poetry!  For 
Heaven's  sake,  away,  my  lord!  he'll  either  tempt  you  to 
extravagance,  or  commit  some  himself. 

Mel.    Death  and  furies!  will  you  not  hear  me?    Why, 
by  Heaven,  she  laughs,  grins,  points  to  your  back!  she 
forks  out  cuckoldom  with  her  fingers,"  and  you're  run- 
ning horn-mad  after  your  fortune!"  131 
[As  Lady  Touchwood  retires  she  turns  back  and 
smiles  at  him. 

Lord  Touch.  I  fear  he's  mad,  indeed  —  let's  send 
Maskwell  to  him. 

Mel.    Send  him  to  her. 

Lady  Touch.  Come,  come,  good  my  lord,  my  heart 
aches  so,  I  shall  faint  if  I  stay. 

[Exeunt  Lord  and  Lady  Touchwood. 

Mel.  Oh,  I  could  curse  my  stars!  fate  and  chance!  all 
causes  and  accidents  of  fortune  in  this  life!  But  to  what 
purpose?  Yet  'sdeath!  for  a  man  to  have  the  fruit  of 
all  his  industry  grow  full  and  ripe,  ready  to  drop  into 
his  mouth,  and  just  when  he  holds  out  his  hand  to  [141 
gather  it,  to  have  a  sudden  whirlwind  come,  tear  up  tree 
and  all,  and  bear  away  the  very  root  and  foundation  of 


SCENE  V]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  121 

his  hopes;  what  temper  can  contain?  They  talk  of  send- 
ing Maskwell  to  me;  I  never  had  more  need  of  him.  — 
But  what  can  he  do?  Imagination  cannot  form  a  fairer 
and  more  plausible  design  than  this  of  his  which  has 
miscarried.  —  O  my  precious  aunt !  I  shall  never  thrive 
without  I  deal  with  the  devil,  or  another  woman. 

Women,  like  flames,  have  a  destroying  power,  150 

Ne'er  to  be  quenched  till  they  themselves  devour. 

[Exit. 


ACT   THE   FIFTH 

Scene  I  j 

The  Gallery  in  Lord  Touchwood's  House 
Enter  Lady  Touchwood  and  Maskwell 

Lady  Touch.    Was't  not  lucky? 

Mask.  Lucky!  Fortune  is  your  own,  and  'tis  her 
interest  so  to  be.  By  Heaven,  I  believe  you  can  con- 
trol her  power!  and  she  fears  it;  though  chance 
brought  my  lord,  'twas  your  own  art  that  turned  it  to 
advantage. 

Lady  Touch.  'Tis  true,  it  might  have  been  my  ruin.  — 
But  yonder's  my  lorxl,  I  believe,  he's  coming  to  find  you. 
I'll  not  be  seen.  [Exit. 

Mask.  So;  I  durst  not  own  my  introducing  my  lord, 
though  it  succeeded  well  for  her,  for  she  would  have 
suspected  a  design  which  I  should  have  been  puzzled  to 
excuse."  My  lord  is  thoughtful  —  I'll  be  so  too,  yet  he 
shall  know  my  thoughts;   or  think  he  does.  14 

Enter  Lord  Touchwood 

What  have  I  done? 

Lord  Touch.    [Aside.]     Talking  to  himself! 

Mask.  'Twas  honest  —  and  shall  I  be  rewarded  for  it! 
No,  'twas  honest,  therefore  I  shan't.  —  Nay,  rather 
therefore  I  ought  not;    for  it  rewards  itself. 

Lord  Touch.    [Aside.]     Unequalled  virtue!  20 

Mask.  But  should  it  be  known!  then  I  have  lost  a 
friend.     He  was  an  ill  man,  and  I  have  gained;  for  half, 

122 


SCENE  i]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  1 23 

myself  I  lent  him,  and  that  I  have  recalled;  so  I  have 
served  myself,  and  what  is  yet  better,  I  have  served  a 
worthy  lord,  to  whom  I  owe  myself. 

Lord  Touch.    [Aside]     Excellent  man! 

Mask.  Yet  I  am  wretched.  —  Oh,  there  is  a  secret 
burns  within  this  breast,  which  should  it  once  blaze  forth, 
would  ruin  all,  consume  my  honest  character,  and  brand 
me  with  the  name  of  villain!  30 

Lord  Touch.    [Aside.]     Ha!' 

Mask.  Why  do  I  love!  Yet  Heaven  and  my  waking 
conscience  are  my  witnesses,  I  never  gave  one  working 
thought  a  vent,  which  might  discover  that  I  loved,  nor 
ever  must;  no,  let.it  prey  upon  my  heart;  for  I  would 
rather  die,  than  seem  once,  barely  seem  dishonest.  —  Oh, 
should  it  once  be  known  I  love  fair  Cynthia,  all  this  that 
I  have  done  would  look  like  rival's  malice,  false  friend- 
ship to  my  lord,  and  base  self-interest.  Let  me  perish 
first,  and  from  this  hour  avoid  all  sight  and  speech,  [40 
and,  if  I  can,  all  thought  of  that  pernicious  beauty.  Ha! 
but  what  is  my  distraction  doing !  I  am  wildly  talking  to 
myself,  and  some  ill  chance  might  have  directed  malicious 
ears  this  way.      [Seems  to  start,  seeing  Lord  Touchwood. 

Lord  Touch.  Start  not  —  let  guilty  and  dishonest  souls 
start  at  the  revelation  of  their  thoughts,  but  be  thou 
fixed  as  is  thy  virtue. 

Mask.  I  am  confounded,  and  beg  your  lordship's 
pardon  for  those  free  discourses  which  I  have  had  with 
myself.  so 

Lord  Touch.  Come,  I  beg  your  pardon  that  I  over- 
heard you,  and  yet  it  shall  not  need.  Honest  Maskwell! 
thy  and  my  good  genius  led  me  hither:  mine,  in  that  I 
have  discovered  so  much  manly  virtue;  thine,  in  that 
thou  shalt  have  due  reward  of  all  thy  worth.  Give  me 
thy  hand,  —  my  nephew  is  the  alone  remaining  branch 
of  all  our  ancient  family;  him  I  thus  blow  away,  and 
constitute  thee  in  his  room  to  be  my  heir. 

Mask.   Now,  Heaven  forbid —  59 


124  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  v 

Lord  Touch.  No  more  —  I  have  resolved.  —  The  writ- 
ings are  ready  drawn,  and  wanted  nothing  but  to  be 
signed,  and  have  his  name  inserted  —  yours  will  fill  the 
blank  as  well.  —  I  will  have  no  reply.  —  Let  me  com- 
mand this  time;  for  'tis  the  last  in  which  I  will  assume 
authority  —  hereafter  you  shall  rule  where  I  have 
power. 

Mask.    I  humbly  would  petition  — 

Lord  Touch.  Is't  for  yourself?  —  [Maskwell  pauses.] 
I'll  hear  of  nought  for  anybody  else.  6q 

Mask.  Then,  witness  Heaven  for  me,  this  wealth  and 
honour  was  not  of  my  seeking,  nor  would  I  build  my 
fortune  on  another's  ruin:   I  had  but  one  desire  — 

Lord  Touch.  Thou  shalt  enjoy  it.  —  If  all  I'm  worth  in 
wealth  or  interest  can  purchase  Cynthia,  she  is  thine.  — 
I'm  sure  Sir  Paul's  consent  will  follow  fortune;  I'll 
quickly  show  him  which  way  that  is  going. 

Mask.  You  oppress  me  with  bounty;  my  gratitude  is 
weak,  and  shrinks  beneath  the  weight,  and  cannot  rise 
to  thank  you.  —  What,  enjoy  my  love!  —  Forgive  the 
transports  of  a  blessing  so  unexpected,  so  unhoped  for, 
so  unthought  of!  8i 

Lord  Touch.    I  will  confirm  it,  and  rejoice  with  thee. 

[Exit. 

Mask.  This  is  prosperous  indeed!  — Why,  let  him  find 
me  out  a  villain,  settled  in  possession  of  a  fair  estate,  and 
full  fruition  of  my  love,  I'll  bear  the  railings  of  a  losing 
gamester.  —  But  should  he  find  me  out  before!  'tis 
dangerous  to  delay.  —  Let  me  think  —  should  my  lord 
proceed  to  treat  openly  of  my  marriage  with  Cynthia, 
all  must  be  discovered,  and  Mellefont  can  be  no  longer 
blinded.  —  It  must  not  be;  nay,  should  my  lady  know  [go 
it  —  aye,  then  were  fine  work  indeed!  Her  fury  would 
spare  nothing,  though  she  involved  herself  in  ruin. 
No,  it  must  be  by  stratagem  —  I  must  deceive  Melle- 
font once  more,  and  get  my  lord  to  consent  to  my 
private   management.     He  comes  opportunely.  —  Now 


SCENE  II]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  1 25 

will  I,  in  my  old  way,  discover  the  whole  and  real  truth 
of  the  matter  to  him,  that  he  may  not  suspect  one  word 
on't. 

No  mask  like  open  truth  to  cover  lies, 

As  to  go  naked  is  the  best  disguise.  100 

Enter  Mellefont 

Mel.   O  Maskwell,  what  hopes?     I  am  confounded  in 
a  maze  of  thoughts,  each  leading  into  one  another,  and 
all  ending  in    perplexity.     My  uncle  will  not  see  nor 
j  hear  me. 

j      Mask.    No  matter,  sir,  don't  trouble  your  head,  all's 
'  in  my  power. 
'      Mel.    How?  for  Heaven's  sake? 

Mask.   Little  do  you  think  that  your  aunt  has  kept  her 

I  word !  —  How  the  devil  she  wrought  my  lord  into  this 

dotage,  I  know  not;  but  he's  gone  to  Sir  Paul  about  my 

marriage  with  Cynthia,  and  has  appointed  me  his  heir. 

^  Mel.   The  devil  he  has!     What's  to  be  done?         112 

Mask.    I  have  it!  —  it  must  be  by  stratagem;   for  it's 

in  vain  to  make  application  to  him.     I  think  I  have  that 

in  my  head  that  cannot  fail.  —  Where's  Cynthia? 

Mel.    In  the  garden. 

Mask.    Let  us  go  and  consult  her:  my  life  for  yours,  I 
cheat  my  lord!  [Exeunt. 

Scene  II 
An  Apartment  in  Lord  Touchwood's  House 
Enter  Lord  Touchwood  and  Lady  Touchwood 

Lady  Touch.    Maskwell  your  heir,  and  marry  Cnythia! 

Lord  Touch.    I  cannot  do  too  much  for  so  much  merit. 

Lady  Touch.    But  this  is  a  thing  of  too  great  moment 

to  be  so  suddenly  resolved.     Why  Cynthia?  why  must  he 


126  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  v 

be  married?  Is  there  not  reward  enough  in  raising  his 
low  fortune,  but  he  must  mix  his  blood  with  mine,  and 
wed  my  niece?  How  know  you  that  my  brother  will 
consent,  or  she?  Nay,  he  himself  perhaps  may  have 
affections  otherwhere. 

Lord  Touch.   No,  I  am  convinced  he  loves  her.  lo 

Lady  Touch.    Maskwell  love  Cynthia!  impossible! 

Lord  Touch.    I  tell  you  he  confessed  it  to  me. 

Lady  Touch.    [Aside.]     Confusion!  how's  this! 

Lord  Touch.  His  humility  long  stifled  his  passion;  and 
his  love  of  Mellefont  would  have  made  him  still  conceal  it. 
But  by  encouragement,  I  wrung  the  secret  from  him;  and 
know  he's  no  way  to  be  rewarded  but  in  her.  I'll  defer 
my  farther  proceedings  in  it  till  you  have  considered  it; 
but  remember  how  we  are  both  indebted  to  him.      [Exit. 

Lady  Touch.  Both  indebted  to  him!  Yes,  we  are  [20 
both  indebted  to  him,  if  you  knew  all.  Villain!  Oh!  I 
am  wild  with  this  surprise  of  treachery!  It  is  impossible, 
it  cannot  be!  —  He  love  Cynthia!  What,  have  I  been 
bawd  to  his  designs,  his  property"  only, a  baiting-place!" 
Now  I  see  what  made  him  false  to  Mellefont.  —  Shame 
and  distraction!  I  cannot  hear  it.  Oh!  what  woman 
can  bear  to  be  a  property?  To  be  kindled  to  a  flame, 
only  to  light  him  to  another's  arms!  Oh,  that  I  were  fire 
indeed,  that  I  might  burn  the  vile  traitor!  What  shall 
I  do?  how  shall  I  think?  I  cannot  think.  —  All  my 
designs  are  lost,  my  love  unsated,  m.y  revenge  unfinished, 
and  fresh  cause  of  fury  from  unthought-of  plagues,     32 

Enter  Sir  Paul 

Sir  Paul.  Madam!  sister!  my  lady  sister!  did  you  see 
my  lady,  my  wife? 

Lady  Touch.    [Aside.]     Oh,  torture! 

Sir  Paul.  Gadsbud,  I  can't  find  her  high  nor  low; 
where  can  she  be,  think  you?  i 

Lady  Touch.   Where  she's  serving  you,  as  all  your  sex 


SCENE  II]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  1 27 

ought  to  be  served;  making  you  a  beast.  Don't  you 
know  that  you're  a  fool,  brother?  40 

^S'/>  Paul.  A  fool!  he!  he!  he!  you're  merry.  No,  no, 
not  I,  I  know  no  such  matter. 

Lady  Touch.  Why,  then,  you  don't  know  half  your 
happiness. 

Sir  Paul.  That's  a  jest  with  all  my  heart,  faith  and 
troth!  —  But  hark  ye,  my  lord  told  me  something  of  a 
revolution  of  things;  I  don't  know^  what  to  makeon't. — 
Gadsbud,  I  must  consult  my  wife.  —  He  talks  of  disin- 
heriting his  nephew,  and  I  don't  know  what.  —  Look  you, 
sister,  I  must  know  what  my  girl  has  to  trust  to;  or  not 
a  syllable  of  a  wedding,  gadsbud  —  to  show  you  that  I 
am  not  a  fool.  52 

Lady  Touch.  Hear  me;  consent  to  the  breaking  off 
this  marriage,  and  the  promoting  any  other,  without  con- 
sulting me,  and  I'll  renounce  all  blood,  all  relation  and 
concern  wdth  you  for  ever  —  nay,  I'll  be  your  enemy  and 
pursue  you  to  destruction;  I'll  tear  your  eyes  out, 
and  tread  you  under  my  feet. 

Sir  Paul.  Why,  what's  the  matter  now?  Good  Lord, 
what's  all  this  for?  Pooh,  here's  a  joke,  indeed!  — Why, 
where's  my  wife?  61 

Lady  Touch.  With  Careless,  in  the  close  arbour;  he 
may  want  you  by  this  time,  as  much  as  you  want  her. 

Sir  Paul.  Oh,  if  she  be  with  Mr.  Careless,  'tis  well 
enough. 

Lady  Touch.  Fool!  sot!  insensible  ox!  But  re- 
member what  I  said  to  you,  or  you  had  better  eat  your 
own  horns;    by  this  light  you  had. 

Sir  Paul.  You're  a  passionate  woman,  gadsbud!  But 
to  say  truth,  all  our  family  are  choleric;  I  am  the  only 
peaceable  person  amongst  'em.  [Exeunt.   71 


128  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  v 

1 
Scene  III 

The  Gallery  in  Lord  Touchwood's  House 
Enter  Mellefont,  Maskwell,  and  Cynthia 

Mel.  I  know  no  other  way  but  this  he  has  proposed; 
if  you  have  love  enough  to  run  the  venture. 

Cyn.  I  don't  know  whether  I  have  love  enough  —  but 
I  find  I  have  obstinacy  enough  to  pursue  whatever  I 
have  once  resolved;  and  a  true  female  courage  to  op- 
pose anything  that  resists  my  will,  though  'twere  reason 
itself. 

Mask.  That's  right.  —  Well,  I'll  secure  the  writings, 
and  run  the  hazard  along  with  you. 

Cyn.  But  how  can  the  coach  and  six  horses  be  got 
ready  without  suspicion?  n 

Mask.  Leave  it  to  my  care;  that  shall  be  so  far  from 
being  suspected,  that  it  shall  be  got  ready  by  my  lord's 
own  order. 

Mel.    How? 

Mask.  Why,  I  intend  to  tell  my  lord  the  whole  matter 
of  our  contrivance,  that's  my  way. 

Mel.    I  don't  understand  you. 

Mask.  Why,  I'll  tell  my  lord  I  laid  this  plot  with  you 
on  purpose  to  betray  you;  and  that  which  put  me  upon 
it  was  the  finding  it  impossible  to  gain  the  lady  any  other 
way,  but  in  the  hopes  of  her  marrying  you.  22 

Mel.   So  — 

Mask.  So,  why  so,  while  you're  busied  in  making 
yourself  ready,  I'll  wheedle  her  into  the  coach;  and 
instead  of  you,  borrow  my  lord's  chaplain,  and  so  run 
away  with  her  myself. 

Mel.    Oh,  I  conceive  you;   you'll  tell  him  so? 
■  Mask.   Tell  him  so!  aye;  why,  you  don't  think  I  mean 
to  do  so?  30 


SCENE  III]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  1 29 

Mel.   No,  no;  ha!  ha!  I  dare  swear  thou  wilt  not. 

Mask.  Therefore,  for  our  farther  security,  I  would  have 
you  disguised  like  a  parson,  that  if  my  lord  should  have 
curiosity  to  peep,  he  may  not  discover  you  in  the  coach, 
but  think  the  cheat  is  carried  on  as  he  would  have  it. 

Mel.  Excellent  Maskwell;  thou  wert  certainly  meant 
for  a  statesman,  or  a  Jesuit  —  but  that  thou  are  too  hon- 
est for  one,  and  too  pious  for  the  other.  38 

Mask.  Well,  get  yourself  ready,  and  meet  me  in  half 
an  hour,  yonder  in  my  lady's  dressing-room;  go  by  the 
backstairs,  and  so  we  may  slip  down  without  being  ob- 
served. —  I'll  send  the  chaplain  to  you  with  his  robes; 
I  have  made  him  my  own,  and  ordered  him  to  meet  us 
to-morrow  morning  at  St.  Albans;  °  there  we  will  sum 
up  this  account,  to  all  our  satisfactions. 

Mel.  Should  I  begin  to  thank  or  praise  thee,  I  should 
waste  the  little  time  we  have.  [Exit. 

Mask.   Madam,  you  will  be  ready?  48 

Cyn.    I  will  be  punctual  to  the  minute.  [Going. 

Mask.  Stay,  I  have  a  doubt.  —  Upon  second  thoughts 
we  had  better  meet  in  the  chaplain's  chamber  here,  the 
corner  chamber  at  this  end  of  the  gallery ;  there  is  a  back 
way  into  it,  so  that  you  need  not  come  through  this  door 
—  and  a  pair  of  private  stairs  leading  down  to  the  stables. 
It  will  be  more  convenient. 

Cyn.  I  am  guided  by  you  —  but  Mellefont  will  mis- 
take. 

Mask.  No,  no,  I'll  after  him  immediately,  and  tell 
him.  59 

Cyn.   I  will  not  fail.  [Exit. 

Mask.  Why,  qui  vult  decipi  decipiatur.^  —  'Tis  no  fault 
of  mine:  I  have  told  'em,  in  plain  terms,  how  easy  'tis 
for  me  to  cheat  'em;  and,  if  they  will  not  hear  the  ser- 
pent's hiss,  they  must  be  stung  into  experience,  and 
future  caution.  Now  to  prepare  my  lord  to  consent  to 
this.  —  But  iirst  I  must  instruct  my  Httle  Levite;  there  is 
no  plot,  public  or  private,  that  can  expect  to  prosper 

CONGREVE  —  9 


I30  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  v 

without  one  of  them  has  a  finger  in't:    he  promised 

me  to  be  within   at    this  hour.  —  Mr.    Saygrace!    Mr. 

Saygrace!  7° 

[Goes  to  the  chamber  door,  and  knocks. 

Saygrace.  [Looking  out.]  Sweet  sir,  I  will  but  pen  the 
last  line  of  an  acrostic,  and  be  with  you  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  ejaculation,  in  the  pronouncing  of  an  amen,  or 
before  you  can  — 

Mask.  Nay,  good  Mr.  Saygrace,  do  not  prolong  the 
time,  by  describing  to  me  the  shortness  of  your  stay; 
rather,  if  you  please,  defer  the  finishing  of  your  wit,  and 
let  us  talk  about  our  business:  it  shall  be  tithes  in  your 
way.  [Enter  Saygrace. 

Say.  You  shall  prevail;  I  would  break  off  in  the 
middle  of  a  sermon  to  do  you  a  pleasure.  8i 

Mask.  You  could  not  do  me  a  greater  —  except  —  the 
business  in  hand.  —  Have  you  provided  a  habit  for 
Mellefont? 

Say.  I  have;  they  are  ready  in  my  chamber,  together 
with  a  clean  starched  band  and  cuffs. 

Mask.  Good,  let  them  be  carried  to  him,  — ■  Have  you 
stitched  the  gown  sleeve,  that  he  may  be  puzzled,  and 
waste  time  in  putting  it  on? 

Say.  I  have;  the  gown  will  not  be  indued  without 
perplexity.  or 

Mask.  Meet  me  in  half  an  hour  here  in  your  own 
chamber.  When  Cynthia  comes  let  there  be  no  light, 
and  do  not  speak,  that  she  may  not  distinguish  you 
from  Mellefont.     I'll  urge  haste  to  excuse  your  silence. 

Say.   You  have  no  more  commands? 

Mask.    None;   your  text  is  short. 

Say.    But  pithy,  and  I  will  handle  it  with  discretion. 

[Exit. 

Mask.   It  will  be  the  first  you  have  so  served.      [Exit, 


SCENE  IV]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  131 

Scene  IV 
The  same 

Enter  Lord  Touchwood  and  Maskwell 

Lord  Touch.  Sure  I  was  born  to  be  controlled  by  those 
I  should  command :  my  very  slaves  will  shortly  give  me 
rules  how  I  shall  govern  them. 

Mask.  I  am  concerned  to  see  your  lordship  discom- 
posed. 

Lord  Touch.  Have  you  seen  my  wife  lately,  or  dis- 
obliged her  ? 

Mask.    No,  my  lord.  —  [Aside.]     What  can  this  mean? 

Lord  Touch.  Then  Mellefont  has  urged  somebody  to 
incense  her.  —  Something  she  has  heard  of  you  which 
carries  her  beyond  the  bounds  of  patience.  n 

Mask.  [Aside.]  This  I  feared.  —  [Aloud.]  Did  not 
your  lordship  tell  her  of  the  honours  you  designed  me? 

Lord  Touch.    Yes. 

Mask.  'Tisthat;  you  know  my  lady  has  a  high  spirit, 
she  thinks  I  am  unworthy. 

Lord  Touch.  Unworthy!  'tis  an  ignorant  pride  in  her 
to  think  so  —  honesty  to  me  is  true  nobility.  However, 
'tis  my  will  it  shall  be  so,  and  that  should  be  convincing 
to  her  as  much  as  reason.  —  By  Heaven,  I'll  not  be  wife- 
ridden!  were  it  possible,  it  should  be  done  this  night.  21 

Mask.  [Aside.]  By  Heaven,  he  meets  my  wishes!  — 
[Aloud.]     Few  things  are  impossible  to  willing  minds. 

Lord  Touch.  Instruct  me  how  this  may  be  done,  you 
shall  see  I  want  no  inclination. 

Mask.  I  had  laid  a  small  design  for  to-morrow  (as 
love  will  be  inventing)  which  I  thought  to  communicate 
to  your  lordship;  but  it  may  be  as  well  done  to-night. 

Lord  Touch.  Here's  company. — Come  this  way  and 
tell  me.  [They  retire. 


132  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  v 

Enter  Careless  and  Cynthia 

Care.   Is  not  that  he  now  gone  out  with  my  lord?     31 

Cyn.   Yes. 

Care.  By  Heaven,  there's  treachery!  —  The  con- 
fusion that  I  saw  your  father  in,  my  Lady  Touchwood's 
passion,  with  what  imperfectly  I  overheard  between 
my  lord  and  her,  confirm  me  in  my  fears.  Where's 
Mellefont? 

Cyn.   Here  he  comes. 

Enter  Mellefont 

Cyn.  [To  Mellefont.]  Did  Maskwell  tell  you  any- 
thing of  the  chaplain's  chamber?  40 

Mel.  No;  my  dear,  will  you  get  ready?  —  the  things 
are  all  in  my  chamber;   I  want  nothing  but  the  habit. 

Care.  You  are  betrayed,  and  Maskwell  is  the  villain 
I  always  thought  him. 

Cyn.  When  you  were  gone,  he  said  his  mind  was 
changed,  and  bid  me  meet  him  in  the  chaplain's  room, 
pretending  immediately  to  follow  you,  and  give  you 
notice. 

Mel.   How!  4g 

Care.  There's  Saygrace  tripping  by  with  a  bundle 
under  his  arm.  —  He  cannot  be  ignorant  that  Maskwell 
means  to  use  his  chamber;  let's  follow  and  examine  him. 

Mel.    'Tis  loss  of  time  —  I  cannot  think  him  false. 

[Exeunt  Careless  and  Mellefont. 

Re-enter  Lord  Touchwood 

Cyn.    [Aside.]     My  lord  musing! 

Lord  Touch.  [Not  perceiving  Cynthia.]  He  has  a 
quick  invention,  if  this  were  suddenly  designed:  yet  he 
says  he  had  prepared  my  chaplain  already. 

Cyn.    [Aside]     How's  this!  now  I  fear  indeed. 


SCENE  IV]  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  1 33 

Lord  Touch.  Cynthia  here!  —  Alone,  fair  cousin,  and 
melancholy?  60 

Cyn.    Your  lordship  was  thoughtful. 

Lord  Touch.  My  thoughts  were  on  serious  business, 
not  worth  your  hearing. 

Cyn.  Mine  were  on  treachery  concerning  you,  and 
may  be  worth  your  hearing. 

Lord  Touch.   Treachery  concerning  me!  pray  be  plain. 

—  Hark!  what  noise! 

Mask.    [Within.]     Will  you  not  hear  me?  68 

Lady  Touch.  [Within.]  No,  monster!  traitor!  no. 
Cyn.  [Aside.]  My  lady  and  Maskwell!  this  may  be 
lucky.  —  [Aloud.]  My  lord,  let  me  entreat  you  to  stand 
behind  this  screen,  and  listen;  perhaps  this  chance  may 
give  you  proof  of  what  you  ne'er  could  have  believed 
from  my  suspicions.  [They  retire  behind  a  screen. 

Enter  Lady  Touchwood  with  a  dagger,  Maskwell 

Lady  Touch.  You  want  but  leisure  to  invent  fresh 
falsehood,  and  soothe  me  to  a  fond  belief  of  all  your 
fictions;  but  I  will  stab  the  lie  that's  forming  in  your 
heart,  and  save  a  sin,  in  pity  to  your  soul. 

Mask.    Strike  then!  —  since  you  will  have  it  so. 

Lady  Touch.    Ha!     A  steady  villain  to  the  last!      80 

Mask.    Come,  why  do  you  dally  with  me  thus? 

Lady  Touch.  Thy  stubborn  temper  shocks  me,  and 
you  knew  it  would.  —  This  is  cunning  all,  and  not 
courage;  no,  I  know  thee  well:  but  thou  shalt  miss  thy 
aim. 

Mask.    Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Lady  Touch.  Ha!  do  you  mock  my  rage?  then  this 
shall  punish  your  fond,  rash  contempt!  —  [Goes  to  strike.] 

—  Again  smile!  —  and  such  a  smile  as  speaks  in  ambi- 
guity! -^  Ten  thousand  meanings  lurk  in  each  corner  [90 
of  that  various  face.  Oh !  that  they  were  written  in  thy 
heart!  that  I,  with  this,  might  lay  thee  open  to  my 


134  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  v 

sight!  —  But  then  'twill  be  too  late  to  know.  —  Thou 
hast,  thou  hast  found  the  only  way  to  turn  my  rage; 
too  well  thou  knowest  my  jealous  soul  could  never  bear 
uncertainty.  Speak  then,  and  tell  me.  —  Yet  are  you 
silent?  Oh,  I  am  bewildered  in  all  passions!  but  thus 
my  anger  melts.  —  [Weeps.]  —  Here,  take  this  poniard, 
for  my  very  spirits  faint,  and  I  want  strength  to  hold 
it;  thou  hast  disarmed  my  soul.  [Gives  the  dagger. 

Lord  Touch.  [Aside.]  Amazement  shakes  me  — 
where  will  this  end?  102 

Mask.  So,  'tis  well  —  let  your  wild  fury  have  a  vent; 
and  when  you  have  temper,  tell  me. 

Lady  Touch.  Now,  now,  now  I  am  calm,  and  can  hear 
you. 

Mask.  [Aside.]  Thanks,  my  invent' on;  and  now  I 
have  it  for  you.  —  [Aloud.]  First  tell  me  what  urged 
you  to  this  violence  ?  for  your  passion  broke  in  such 
imperfect  terms,  that  yet  I  am  to  learn  the  cause,     no 

Lady  Touch.  My  lord  himself  surprised  me  with  the 
news  you  were  to  marry  Cynthia  —  that  you  had  owned 
your  love  to  him,  and  his  indulgence  would  assist  you  to 
attain  your  ends. 

Cyn.    [Aside  to  Lord  Touchwood.]     How,  my  lord! 

Lord  Touch.  [Aside  to  Cynthia.]  Pray  forbear  all 
resentments  for  a  while,  and  let  us  hear  the  rest. 

Mask.  I  grant  you  in  appearance  all  is  true;  I  seemed 
consenting  to  my  lord;  nay,  transported  with  the  bless- 
ing. —  But  could  you  think  that  I,  who  had  been  happy 
in  your  loved  embraces,  could  e'er  be  fond  of  an  inferior 
slavery?  122' 

Lord  Touch.  [Aside.]  Ha!  Oh,  poison  to  my  ears! 
what  do  I  hear! 

Cyn.  [Aside.]  Nay,  good  my  lord,  forbear  resent- 
ment, let  us  hear  it  out. 

Lord  Touch.  [Aside.]  Yes,  I  will  contain,  though  I 
could  burst. 

Mask.    I  that  had  wantoned  in  the  rich  circle  of  your 


SCENE  IV]  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  135 

world  of  love,  could  I  be  confined  within  the  puny  [130 
province  of  a  girl!  No  —  yet  though  I  dote  on  each 
last  favour  more  than  all  the  rest;  though  I  would  give  a 
limb  for  every  look  you  cheaply  throw  away  on  any 
other  object  of  your  love;  yet  so  far  I  prize  your  pleas- 
ures o'er  my  own,  that  all  this  seeming  plot  that  I  have 
laid  has  been  to  gratify  your  taste,  and  cheat  the  world, 
to  prove  a  faithful  rogue  to  you. 

Lady  Touch.    If  this  were  true!  —  but  how  can  it  be? 

Mask.  I  have  so  contrived  that  Mellefont  will  pres- 
ently, in  the  chaplain's  habit,  wait  for  Cynthia  in  [140 
your  dressing-room:  but  I  have  put  the  change  upon  her 
that  she  may  be  otherwhere  employed.  —  Do  you  procure 
her  nightgown,  and,  with  your  hoods  tied  over  your 
face,  meet  him  in  her  stead ;  you  may  go  privately  by 
the  backstairs,  and,  unperceived,  there  you  may  propose 
to  reinstate  him  in  his  uncle's  favour,  if  he'll  comply 
with  your  desires;  his  case  is  desperate,  and  I  believe 
he'll  yield  to  any  conditions.  —  If  not  —  here  take  this; 
you  may  employ  it  better  than  in  the  heart  of  one  who 
is  nothing  when  not  yours.  [Gives  the  dagger. 

Lady  Touch.  Thou  canst  deceive  everybody  —  nay, 
thou  hast  deceived  me;  but  'tis  as  I  would  wish.  — 
Trusty  villain  I     I  could  worship  thee!  153 

Mask.  No  more.  —  There  wants  but  a  few  minutes  of 
the  time;  and  Mellefont's  love  will  carry  him  there  before 
his  hour. 

Lady  Touch.    I  go,  I  fly,  incomparable  Maskwell ! 

[Exit. 

Mask.  So,  this  was  a  pinch  indeed;  my  invention  was 
upon  the  rack,  and  made  discovery  of  her  last  plot:  I 
hope  Cynthia  and  my  chaplain  will  be  ready,  I'll  pre- 
pare for  the  expedition.  [Exit. 

Cynthia  and  Lord  Touchwood  coming  forward 

Cyn.    Now,  my  lord.  162 

Lord  Touch.   Astonishment  binds  up  my  rage!  Villainy 


136  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  v 

upon  villainy !  Heavens,  what  a  long  track  of  dark  deceit 
has  this  discovered !  I  am  confounded  when  I  look  back, 
and  want  a  clue  to  guide  me  through  the  various  mazes 
of  unheard-of  treachery.     My  wife!  damnation!  my  hell! 

Cyn.  My  lord,  have  patience,  and  be  sensible  how 
great  our  happiness  is  that  this  discovery  was  not  made 
too  late.  170 

Lord  Touch.  I  thank  you,  yet  it  may  be  still  too  late, 
if  we  don't  presently  prevent  the  execution  of  their  plots. 
—  Ha,  I'll  do't.  Where's  Mellefont,  my  poor  injured 
nephew?  —  How  shall  I  make  him  ample  satisfaction?  — 

Cyn.   I  dare  answer  for  him. 

Lord  Touch.  I  do  him  fresh  wrong  to  question  his  for- 
giveness; for  I  know  him  to  be  all  goodness.  —  Yet  my 
wife!  damn  her!  —  She'll  think  to  meet  him  in  that  dress- 
ing-room —  was't  not  so?  And  Maskwell  will  expect 
you  in  the  chaplain's  chamber.  —  For  once,  I'll  add  [iSo 
my  plot  too.  —  Let  us  haste  to  find  out,  and  inform 
my  nephew;  and  do  you  quickly  as  you  can  bring  all 
the  company  into  this  gallery.  —  I'll  expose  the  strumpet 
and  the  villain.  \Exeunt. 


Scene  V 
A  Room  in  Lord  Touchwood's  House 

Lord  Froth  and  Sir  Paul 

Lord  Froth.  By  Heavens,  I  have  slept  an  age!  —  Sir 
Paul,  what  o'clock  is't?  Past  eight,  on  my  conscience! 
my  lady's  is  the  most  inviting  couch;  and  a  slumber 
there  is  the  prettiest  amusement!  But  where's  all  the 
company?  — 

Sir  Paul.  The  company,  gadsbud,  I  don't  know,  my 
lord,  but  here's  the  strangest  revolution,  all  turned 
topsy-turvy;   as  I  hope  for  Providence. 


SCENE  v]  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  1 37 

Lord  Froth.  O  Heavens,  what's  the  matter?  where's 
my  wife?  lo 

Sir  Paul.    All  turned  topsy-turvy,  as  sure  as  a  gun. 

Lord  Froth.    How  do  you  mean?  my  wife! 

^^V  Paul.   The  strangest  posture  of  affairs! 

Lord  Froth.    What,  my  wife? 

Sir  Paul.  No,  no,  I  mean  the  family.  —  Your  lady's 
affairs  may  be  in  a  very  good  posture;  I  saw  her  go  into 
the  garden  with  Mr.  Brisk. 

Lord  Froth.    How?  where?  when?  what  to  do? 

Sir  Paul.  I  suppose  they  have  been  laying  their  heads 
together.  20 

Lord  Froth.   How? 

Sir  Paul.  Nay,  only  about  poetry,  I  suppose,  my 
lord;    making  couplets. 

Lord  Froth.    Couplets! 

Sir  Paul.   Oh,  here  they  come. 

Enter  Lady  Froth  and  Brisk 

Brisk.  My  lord,  your  humble  servant  —  Sir  Paul, 
yours. — The  finest  night! 

Lady  Froth.  My  dear,  Mr.  Brisk  and  I  have  been  star- 
gazing, I  don't  know  how  long. 

Sir  Paul.  Does  it  not  tire  your  ladyship;  are  not  you 
weary  with  looking  up?  31 

Lady  Froth.  Oh,  no,  I  love  it  violently.  —  My  dear, 
you're  melancholy. 

Lord  Froth.    No,  my  dear;   I'm  but  just  awake. 

Lady  Froth.    Snuff  some  of  my  spirit  of  hartshorn. 

Lord  Froth.   I've  some  of  my  own,  thank  you,  my  dear. 

Lady  Froth.  Well,  I  swear,  Mr.  Brisk,  you  understood 
astronomy  like  an  old  Egyptian. 

Brisk.  Not  comparably  to  your  ladyship;  you  are  the 
very  Cynthia  of  the  skies,  and  queen  of  stars.  40 

Lady  Froth.  That's  because  I  have  no  light  but  what's 
by  reflection  from  you,  who  are  the  sun. 


138  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  [act  v 

Brisk.  Madam,  you  have  eclipsed  me  quite,  let  Ine 
perish!  —  I  can't  answer  that. 

Lady  Froth.  No  matter.  —  Harkee,  shall  you  and  I 
make  an  almanac  together? 

Brisk.  With  all  my  soul.  —  Your  ladyship  has  made 
me  the  man  in't  already,"  I'm  so  full  of  the  wounds 
which  you  have  given.  40 

Lady  Froth.  Oh,  finely  taken!  I  swear  now  you  are 
even  with  me.  0  Parnassus!  you  have  an  infinite  deal 
of  wit. 

Sir  Paul.  So  he  has,  gadsbud,  and  so  has  your  lady- 
ship. 

Enter  Lady  Plyant,  Careless,  Cynthia 

Lady  Ply.  You  tell  me  most  surprising  things;  bless 
me,  who  would  ever  trust  a  man!  Oh,  my  heart  aches 
for  fear  they  should  be  all  deceitful  alike. 

Care.  You  need  not  fear,  madam,  you  have  charms 
to  fix  inconstancy  itself. 

Lady  Ply.    Oh,  dear,  you  make  me  blush!  60 

Lord  Froth.  Come,  my  dear,  shall  we  take  leave  of  my 
-lord  and  lady? 

Cyn.   They'll  wait  upon  your  lordship  presently. 

Lady  Froth.    Mr.  Brisk,  my  coach  shall  set  you  down, 
[A  great  shriek  from  the  corner  of  the  stage. 

All.    What's  the  matter? 

Lady  Touchwood  runs  in  af  righted,  Lord  Touchwood 
after  her,  disguised  in  a  parson's  habit 

Lady  Touch.    Oh,  I'm  betrayed!  —  Save  me!  help  me! 

Lord  Touch.    Now,  what  evasion,  strumpet? 

Lady  Touch.   Stand  ofT!  let  me  go! 

Lord  Touch.  Go,  and  thy  own  infamy  pursue  thee  — 
[Exit  Lady  Touchwood.]  —  You  stare  as  you  were  all 
amazed.  —  I  don't  wonder  at  it  —  but  too  soon  you'll 
know  mine,  and  that  woman's  shame.  72 


SCENE  v]  THE    DOUBLE-DEALER  1 39 

Enler  Mellefont  disguised   in   a   parson's   habit,  and 
pulling  in  Maskwell,  followed  by  Servants 

Mel.  Nay,  by  Heaven,  you  shall  be  seen!  —  Careless, 
your  hand.  —  [To  Maskwell.]  Do  you  hold  down  your 
head?  Yes,  I  am  your  chaplain;  look  in  the  face  of  your 
injured  friend,  thou  wonder  of  all  falsehood! 

Lord  Touch.    Are  you  silent,  monster? 

Mel.  Good  Heavens!  how  I  believed  and  loved  this 
man!  —  Take  him  hence,  for  he's  a  disease  to  my  sight. 

Lord  Touch.    Secure  that  manifold  villain.  80 

[Servants  seize  him. 

Care.    Miracle  of  ingratitude! 

Brisk.    Tliis  is  all  very  surprising,  let  me  perish! 

Lady  Froth.  You  know  I  told  you  Saturn  looked  a 
little  more  angry  than  usual." 

Lord  Touch.  We'll  think  of  punishment  at  leisure,  but 
let  me  hasten  to  do  justice,  in  rewarding  virtue  and 
wronged  innocence.  —  Nephew,  I  hope  I  have  your  par- 
don, and  Cynthia's. 

Mel.    We  are  your  lordship's  creatures.  89 

Lord  Touch.  And  be  each  other's  comfort.  —  Let  me 
join  your  hands.  — ^Unwearied  nights  and  wishing  days 
attend  you  both;  mutual  love,  lasting  health,  and  cir- 
cling joys,  tread  round  each  happy  year  of  your  long  lives. 

Let  secret  villainy  from  hence  be  warned; 
Howe'er  in  private  mischiefs  are  conceived, 
Torture  and  shame  attend  their  open  birth; 
Like  vipers  in  the  womb,  base  treachery  lies, 
Still  gnawing  that  whence  first  it  did  arise; 
No  sooner  born,  but  the  vile  parent  dies. 

[Exeunt  omnes. 


EPILOGUE 

SPOKEN    BY   MRS.    MOUNTFORD" 

Could  poets  but  foresee  how  plays  would  take, 
Then  they  could  tell  what  epilogues  to  make; 
Whether  to  thank  or  blame  their  audience  most: 
But  that  late  knowledge  does  much  hazard  cost: 
'Till  dice  are  thrown,  there's  nothing  won  nor  lost. 
So,  till  the  thief  has  stolen,  he  cannot  know 
Whether  he  shall  escape  the  law  or  no. 
But  poets  run  much  greater  hazards  far. 
Than  they  who  stand  their  trials  at  the  bar. 
The  law  provides  a  curb  for  its  own  fury,  lo 

And  suffers  judges  to  direct  the  jury: 
But  in  this  court,  what  difference  does  appear! 
For  every  one's  both  judge  and  jury  here; 
Nay,  and  what's  worse,  an  executioner. 
All  have  a  right  and  title  to  some  part. 
Each  choosing  that  in  which  he  has  most  art. 
The  dreadful  men  of  learning  all  confound. 
Unless  the  fable's  good,  and  moral  sound. 
The  vizor-masks  that  are  in  pit  and  gallery. 
Approve  or  damn  the  repartee  and  raillery.  20 

The  lady  critics,  who  are  better  read, 
Inquire  if  characters  are  nicely  bred; 
If  the  soft  things  are  penned  and  spoke  with  grace: 
They  judge  of  action,  too,  and  time,  and  place;" 
In  which  we  do  not  doubt  but  they're  discerning. 
For  that's  a  kind  of  assignation  learning." 
Beaux  judge  of  dress;    the  witlings  judge  of  songs; 
The  cuckoldom,  of  ancient  right,  to  cits"  belongs. 

140 


THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  141 

Poor  poets  thus  the  favour  are  denied 

Even  to  make  exceptions,  when  they're  tried.  30 

'Tis  hard  that  they  must  every  one  admit; 

Methinks  I  see  some  faces  in  the  pit 

Which  must  of  consequence  be  foes  to  wit. 

You  who  can  judge,  to  sentence  may  proceed; 

But  though  he  cannot  write,  let  him  be  freed 

At  least  from  their  contempt  who  cannot  read. 


LOVE  FOR  LOVE 


Nudus  agris,  nudus  nummis  paternis, 

Insanire  parat  certa  ratione  modoque." 

—  HORAT.  lib.  ii.  Sat.  3.  [184  and  271.] 


LOVE   FOR   LOVE 

Love  for  Love  has  remained  deservedly  the  most  popular  of 
Congreve's  comedies,  having  been  staged  from  the  date  of  its 
first  performance  at  the  new  theatre  of  Betterton,  in  Lincoln's 
Inn  Fields,  1695,  up  to  the  days  of  Lamb  and  Hazlitt,  with  no 
long  intervals  of  discontinuance.  Like  the  rest  of  Congreve's 
comedies,  the  success  of  Love  for  Love  is  dependent  on  its 
heightened  and  satirical  representation  of  life,  and  not  on  the 
slender  intrigue  which,  however,  is  sufficiently  sustained  by  the 
brilliant  wit  and  repartee  of  the  dialogue.  This  comedy  has 
bequeathed  at  least  two  stock  personages  to  the  latter  drama, 
Jeremy,  the  witty  *'  gentleman's  gentleman,"  and  Ben  Legend, 
the  bluff  "sea  monster"  ashore. 


CONGREVE — 10  145 


To  the  Right  Honourable 

CHARLES,  EARL  OF  DORSET  AND  MIDDLESEX, 

Lord  Chamberlain  of  His  Majesty's  household,  and  Knight 
of  the  most  noble  Order  of  the  Garter,  etc. 

My  Lord, 

A  young  poet  is  liable  to  the  same  vanity  and  indis- 
cretion with  a  young  lover;  and  the  great  man  who 
smiles  upon  one,  and  the  fine  woman  who  looks  kindly 
upon  t'other,  are  both  of  them  in  danger  of  having  the 
favour  published  with  the  first  opportunity. 

But  there  may  be  a  different  motive,  which  will  a  little 
distinguish  the  offenders.  For  though  one  should  have 
a  vanity  in  ruining  another's  reputation,  yet  the  other 
may  only  have  an  ambition  to  advance  his  own.  And 
I  beg  leave,  my  Lord,  that  I  may  plead  the  latter,  both 
as  the  cause  and  excuse  of  this  dedication. 

Whoever  is  king,  is  also  the  father  of  his  country;  and 
as  nobody  can  dispute  your  Lordship's  monarchy  in 
poetry;  so  all  that  are  concerned  ought  to  acknowledge 
your  universal  patronage;  and  it  is  only  presuming  on 
the  privilege  of  a  loyal  subject,  that  I  have  ventured 
to  make  this  my  address  of  thanks  to  your  Lordship; 
which,  at  the  same  ime,  included  a  prayer  for  your 
protection. 

I  am  not  ignorant  of  the  common  form  of  poetical 
dedications,  which  are  generally  made  up  of  panegyrics, 
where  the  authors  endeavour  to  distinguish  their  patrons 
by  the  shining  characters  they  give  them  above  other 
men.  But  that,  my  Lord,  is  not  my  business  at  this 
time,  nor  is  your  Lordship  now  to  be  distinguished.  I  am 
contented  with  the  honour  I  do  myself  in  this  epistle, 
without  the  vanity  of  attempting  to  add  to  or  explain 
your  Lordship's  character. 

146 


LOVE   FOR    LOVE  147 

I  confess  it  is  not  without  some  struggling  that  I  be- 
have myseh"  in  this  case  as  I  ought ;  for  it  is  very  hard  to 
be  pleased  with  a  subject,  and  yet  forbear  it.  But  I 
choose  rather  to  follow  Pliny's  precept,  than  his  example, 
when  in  his  panegyric  to  the  Emperor  Trajan  he  says  — 
"Nee  minus  considerabo  quid  aures  eius  pati  possint, 
quam  quid  virtutibus  debeatur." 

I  hope  I  may  be  excused  the  pedantry  of  a  quotation, 
when  it  is  so  justly  applied.  Here*are  some  lines  in  the 
print  (and  which  your  Lordship  read  before  this  play  was 
acted)  that  were  omitted  on  the  stage,  and  particularly 
one  whole  scene  in  the  Third  Act,  which  not  only  helps 
the  design  forward  with  less  precipitation,  but  also 
heightens  the  ridiculous  character  of  Foresight,  which 
indeed  seems  to  be  maimed  without  it.  But  I  found 
myself  in  great  danger  of  a  long  play,  and  was  glad  to 
help  it  where  I  could.  Though  notwithstanding  my 
care,  and  the  kind  reception  it  had  from  the  town,  I 
could  heartily  wish  it  yet  shorter;  but  the  number  of 
different  characters  represented  in  it  would  have  been 
too  much  crowded  in  less  room. 

This  reflection  on  prohxity  (a  fault  for  which  scarce  any 
one  beauty  will  atone)  warns  me  not  to  be  tedious  now, 
and  detain  your  Lordship  any  longer  with  the  trifles 
of,  my  Lord,  your  Lordship's  most  obedient,  and  most 
humble  servant, 

WILL.    CONGREVE. 


PROLOGUE 

SPOKEN,  AT  THE  OPENING  OF  THE  NEW  HOUSE,  BY  MR. 

BETTERTON 

The  husbandman  in  vain  renews  his  toil, 
To  cultivate  each  year  a  hungry  soil; 
And  fondly  hopes  for  rich  and  generous  fruit, 
When  what  should  feed  the  tree  devours  the  root; 
The  unladen  boughs,  he  sees,  bode  certain  dearth. 
Unless  transplanted  to  more  kindly  earth. 
So,  the  poor  husbands  of  the  stage,  who  found 
Their  labours  lost  upon  ungrateful  ground. 
This  last  and  only  remedy  have  proved. 
And  hope  new  fruit  from  ancient  stocks  removed.     lo 
Well  may  they  hope,  when  you  so  kindly  aid. 
Well  plant  a  soil  which  you  so  rich  have  made. 
As  Nature  gave  the  world  to  man's  first  age, 
So  from  your  bounty  we  receive  this  stage; 
The  freedom  man  was  born  to  you've  restored, 
And  to  our  world  such  plenty  you  afford. 
It  seems  like  Eden,  fruitful  of  its  own  accord. 
But  since  in  Paradise  frail  flesh  gave  way. 
And  when  but  two  were  made,  both  went  astray; 
Forbear  your  wonder  and  the  fault  forgive,  20 

If  in  our  larger  family  we  grieve 
One  falling  Adam,  and  one  tempted  Eve. 
We  who  remain  would  gratefully  repay 
What  our  endeavours  can,  and  bring,  this  day. 
The  first-fruit  offering  of  a  virgin  play. 
We  hope  there's  something  that  may  please  each  taste. 
And  though  of  homely  fare  we  make  the  feast, 
Yet  you  will  find  variety  at  least. 

148 


LOVE   FOR   LOVE  149 

There's  humour,  which  for  cheerful  friends  we  got, 

And  for  the  thinking  party  there's  a  plot.  30 

We've  something,  too,  to  gratify  ill-nature, 

(If  there  be  any  here)  and  that  is  satire; 

Though  satire  scarce  dares  grin,  'tis  grown  so  mild, 

Or  only  shows  its  teeth  as  if  it  smiled. 

As  asses  thistles,  poets  mumble  wit, 

And  dare  not  bite,  for  fear  of  being  bit. 

They  hold  their  pens,  as  swords  are  held  by  fools, 

And  are  afraid  to  use  their  own  edge-tools. 

Since  The  Plain  Dealers  scenes  of  manly  rage," 

Not  one  has  dared  to  lash  this  crying  age.  40 

This  time  the  poet  owns  the  bold  essay, 

Yet  hopes  there's  no  ill  manners  in  his  play: 

And  he  declares  by  me,  he  has  designed 

Affront  to  none,  but  frankly  speaks  his  mind. 

And  should  the  ensuing  scenes  not  chance  to  hit. 

He  offers  but  this  one  excuse,  'twas  writ 

Before  your  late  encouragement  of  wit. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

Sir  Sampson  Legend,  Father  of  Valentine  and  Ben. 

Valentine,  fallen  under  his  Father's  displeasure  by  his  expensive 
way  of  living,  in  love  with  Angelica. 

Scandal,  his  Friend,  a  free  speaker. 

Tattle,  a  half-witted  Beau,  vain  of  his  amours,  yet  valuing  him- 
self for  secrecy. 

Ben,  Sir  Sampson's  younger  Son,  half  home-bred  and  half  sea- 
bred,  designed  to  marry  Miss  Prue. 

Foresight,  an  illiterate  old  fellow,  peevish  and  positive,  super- 
stitious, and  pretending  to  understand  Astrology,  Palmistry, 
Physiognomy,  Omens,  Dreams,  etc..  Uncle  to  Angelica. 

Jeremy,  Servant  to  Valentine. 

Trapland,  a  Scrivener. 

Buckram,  a  Lawyer. 

Snap,  a  Bailiff. 

Stewards,  Sailors,  and  Servants. 

Angelica,  Niece  to  Foresight,  of  a  considerable  Fortune  in  her 

own  hands. 
Mrs.  Foresight,  second  Wife  of  Foresight. 
Mrs.  Frail,  Sister  to  Mrs.  Foresight,  a  Woman  of  the  Town. 
Miss  Prue,  Daughter  of  Foresight  by  a  former  Wife,  a  silly 

awkward  country  Girl. 
Nurse  to  Miss  Prue. 
Jenny,  Maid  to  Angelica. 

Scene  —  London 


ISO 


LOVE  FOR  LOVE 

ACT  THE   FIRST 

Scene  I 

Valentine's  Lodging 

Valentine  in  his  chamber  reading,  Jeremy  waiting: 
several  books  upon  the  table 

Val.   Jeremy! 

Jer.    Sir? 

Val.  Here,  take  away;  I'll  walk  a  turn,  and  digest 
what  I  have  read. 

Jer.  [Aside.]  You'll  grow  devilish  fat  upon  this 
paper  diet.  [Takes  away  the  books. 

Val.  And  d'ye  hear,  go  you  to  breakfast.  —  There's 
a  page  doubled  down  in  Epictetus  that  is  a  feast  for  an 
emperor. 

Jer.  Was  Epictetus  a  real  cook,  or  did  he  only  write 
receipts?  n 

Val.  Read,  read,  sirrah!  and  refine  your  appetite; 
learn  to  live  upon  instruction;  feast  your  mind,  and 
mortify  your  flesh;  read,  and  take  your  nourishment  in 
at  your  eyes;  shut  up  your  mouth,  and  chew  the  cud  of 
understanding;    so  Epictetus  advises. 

Jer.  O  Lord !  I  have  heard  much  of  him,  when  I  waited 
upon  a  gentleman  at  Cambridge.  Pray  what  was  that 
Epictetus? 

Val.    A  very  rich  man  —  not  worth  a  groat.  20 

Jer.  Humph,  and  so  he  has  made  a  very  fine  feast 
where  there  is  nothing  to  be  eaten? 

151 


152  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  i 

Vol.   Yes. 

Jer.  Sir,  you're  a  gentleman,  and  probably  understand 
this  fine  feeding;  but  if  you  please,  I  had  rather  be  at 
board-wages.  Does  your  Epictetus,  or  your  Seneca  here, 
or  any  of  these  poor  rich  rogues,  teach  you  how  to  pay 
your  debts  without  money?  Will  they  shut  up  the 
mouths  of  your  creditors?  Will  Plato  be  bail  for  you? 
or  Diogenes,  because  he  understands  confinement,  and  [30 
lived  in  a  tub,  go  to  prison  for  you?  'Slife,  sir,  what  do 
you  mean?  to  mew  yourself  up  here  with  three  or  four 
musty  books,  in  commendation  of  starving  and  poverty? 

Val.  Why,  sirrah,  I  have  no  money,  you  know  it;  and 
therefore  resolve  to  rail  at  all  that  have;  and  in  that  I  but 
follow  the  examples  of  the  wisest  and  wittiest  men  in  all 
ages;  these  poets  and  philosophers  whom  you  naturally 
hate,  for  just  such  another  reason,"  because  they  abound 
in  sense,  and  you  are  a  fool.  39 

Jer.  Aye,  sir,  I  am  a  fool,  I  know  it;  and  yet.  Heaven 
help  me,  I'm  poor  enough  to  be  a  wit  —  but  I  was  always 
a  fool  when  I  told  you  what  your  expenses  would  bring 
you  to;  your  coaches  and  your  liveries,  your  treats  and 
your  balls;  your  being  in  love  with  a  lady  that  did  not 
care  a  farthing  for  you  in  your  prosperity;  and  keep- 
ing company  with  wits  that  cared  for  nothing  but  your 
prosperity,  and  now,  when  you  are  poor,  hate  you  as 
much  as  they  do  one  another.  48 

Val.  Well,  and  now  I  am  poor  I  have  an  opportunity 
to  be  revenged  on  'em  all;  I'll  pursue  Angelica  with  more 
love  than  ever,  and  appear  more  notoriously  her  admirer 
in  this  restraint,  than  when  I  openly  rivalled  the  rich 
fops  that  made  court  to  her;  so  shall  my  poverty  be  a 
mortification  to  her  pride,  and  perhaps  make  her  com- 
passionate the  love,  which  has  principally  reduced  me 
to  this  lowness  of  fortune.  And  for  the  wits,  I'm  sure 
I  am  in  a  condition  to  be  even  with  them. 

Jer.  Nay,  your  position  is  pretty  even  with  theirs, 
that's  the  truth  on't.  59 


SCENE  I]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  1 53 

Val.   I'll  take  some  of  their  trade  out  of  their  hands. 

Jer.  Now  Heaven,  of  mercy,  continue  the  tax  upon 
paper!     You  don't  mean  to  write? 

Val.    Yes,  I  do;  I'll  write  a  play. 

Jer.  Hem!  —  Sir,  if  you  please  to  give  me  a  small 
certificate  of  three  lines  —  only  to  certify  those  whom  it 
may  concern,  that  the  bearer  hereof,  Jeremy  Fetch  by 
name,  has  for  the  space  of  seven  years,  truly  and  faith- 
fully served  Valentine  Legend,  Esq.;  and  that  he  is 
not  now  turned  away  for  any  misdemeanour,  but  does 
voluntarily  dismiss  his  master  from  any  future  authority 
over  him.  71 

Val.    No,  sirrah,  you  shall  live  with  me  still. 

Jer.  .Sir,  it's  impossible:  I  may  die  with  you,  starve 
with  you,  or  be  damned  with  your  works;  but  to  live, 
even  three  days,  the  life  of  a  play,  I  no  more  expect  it, 
than  to  be  canonized  for  a  Muse  after  my  decease. 

Val.  You  are  witty,  you  rogue!  I  shall  want  your 
help;  I'll  have  you  learn  to  make  couplets,  to  tag  the 
ends  of  acts;  d'ye  hear,  get  the  maids  to  crambo"  in  an 
evening,  and  learn  the  knack  of  rhyming:  you  may 
arrive  at  the  height  of  a  song  sent  by  an  unknown 
hand,"  or  a  chocolate-house  lampoon."  82 

Jer.  But,  sir,  is  this  the  way  to  recover  your  father's  fa- 
vour? Why,  Sir  Sampson  will  be  irreconcilable.  If  your 
younger  brother  should  come  from  sea,  he'd  never  look 
upon  you  again.  You're  undone,  sir,  you're  ruined,  you 
won't  have  a  friend  left  in  the  world  if  you  turn  poet.  — 
Ah,  pox  confound  that  Will's  Coffee-house!"  it  has  ruined 
more  young  men  than  the  Royal  Oak  lottery"  —  nothing 
thrives  that  belongs  to't.  The  man  of  the  house  would  [go 
have  been  an  alderman  by  this  time  with  half  the  trade, 
if  he  had  set  up  in  the  city.  For  my  part,  I  never  sit  at 
the  door  that  I  don't  get  double  the  stomach  that  I  do  at 
a  horse-race  —  the  air  upon  Banstead  downs  is  nothing 
to  it  for  a  whetter.  Yet  I  never  see  it,  but  the  spirit  of 
famine  appears  to  me,  sometimes  like  a  decayed  porter, 


154  LOVE    FOR    LOVE  [act  i 

worn  out  with  pimping,  and  carrying  billets-doux  and 
songs;  not  like  other  porters  for  hire,  but  for  the  jest's 
sake:  now  like  a  thin  chairman,  melted  down  to  half  his 
proportion  with  carrying  a  poet  upon  tick,"  to  visit  some 
great  fortune,  and  his  fare  to  be  paid  him,  like  the  wages 
of  sin,  either  at  the  day  of  marriage,  or  the  day  of  death. 
Val.    Very  well,  sir;    can  you  proceed?  103 

'  Jer.  Sometimes  like  a  bilked  bookseller,  with  a  meagre 
terrified  countenance,  that  looks  as  if  he  had  written  for 
himself,  or  were  resolved  to  turn  author,  and  bring  the 
rest  of  his  brethren  into  the  same  condition:  and  lastly, 
in  the  form  of  a  worn-out  punk,  with  verses  in  her  hand, 
which  her  vanity  had  preferred  to  settlements,  without 
a  whole  tatter  to  her  tail,  but  as  ragged  as  one  of  [no 
the  Muses;  or  as  if  she  were  carrying  her  linen  to  the 
paper-mill,  to  be  converted  into  folio  books,  of  warning 
to  all  young  maids,  not  to  prefer  poetry  to  good  sense, 
or  lying  in  the  arms  of  a  needy  wit,  before  the  embraces 
of  a  wealthy  fool. 

Enter  Scandal 

Scan.    What,  Jeremy  holding  forth? 

Val.  The  rogue  has  (with  all  the  wit  he  could  muster 
up)  been  declaiming  against  wit. 

Scan.  Aye?  why,  then,  I'm  afraid  Jeremy  has  wit:  for 
wherever  it  is,  it's  always  contriving  its  own  ruin.    120 

Jer.  Why,  so  I  have  been  telling  my  master,  sir;  Mr. 
Scandal,  for  Heaven's  sake,  sir,  try  if  you  can  dissuade 
him  from  turning  poet. 

Scan.  Poet!  he  shall  turn  soldier  first,  and  rather  de- 
pend upon  the  outside  of  his  head  than  the  lining.  Why, 
what  the  devil !  has  not  your  poverty  made  you  enemies 
enough?  must  you  needs  show  your  wit  to  get  more? 

Jer.  Aye,  more  indeed;  for  who  cares  for  anybody 
that  has  more  wit  than  himself?  i2g 

Scan.  Jeremy  speaks  like  an  oracle.  Don't  you  see 
how  worthless  great  men,  and  dull  rich  rogues,  avoid  a 


SCENE  I]  LOVE    FOR    LOVE  1 55 

witty  man  of  small  fortune?  Why,  he  looks  like  a  writ 
of  inquiry  °  into  their  titles  and  estates;  and  seems  com- 
missioned by  Heaven  to  seize  the  better  half. 

Val.  Therefore  I  would  rail  in  my  writings,  and  be 
revenged.  i,s6 

Scan.  Rail?  at  whom?  the  whole  world?  Impotent 
and  vain !  who  would  die  a  martyr  to  sense "  in  a  country 
where  the  religion  is  folly?  You  may  stand  at  bay  for  a 
while;  but  when  the  full  cry "  is  against  you,  you  shan't 
have  fair  play  for  your  life.  If  you  can't  be  fairly  run 
down  by  the  hounds,  you  will  be  treacherously  shot  by 
the  huntsmen.  No,  turn  pimp,  flatterer,  quack,  lawyer, 
parson,  be  chaplain  to  an  atheist,  or  stallion  to  an  old 
woman,  anything  but  poet;  a  modern  poet  is  worse,  more 
servile,  timorous  and  fawning,  than  any  I  have  named: 
without  you  could  retrieve  the  ancient  honours  of  the 
name,  recall  the  stage  of  Athens,  and  be  allowed  the  force 
of  open,  honest  satire.  ug 

Val.  You  are  as  inveterate  against  our  poets  as  if  your 
character  had  been  lately  exposed  upon  the  stage.  —  Nay, 
I  am  not  violently  bent  upon  the  trade.  — •  [Knocking  at 
the  door.]  Jeremy,  see  who's  there.  —  [Exit  Jeremy.] 
But  tell  me  what  you  would  have  me  do?  What  does  the 
world  say  of  me,  and  my  forced  confinement? 

Scan.  The  world  behaves  itself  as  it  uses  to  do  on 
such  occasions;  some  pity  you  and  condemn  your 
father;  others  excuse  him  and  blame  you;  only  the 
ladies  are  merciful,  and  wish  you  well;  since  love  and 
pleasurable  expense  have  been  your  greatest  faults.    i6o 

Re-enter  Jeremy 

Val.   How  now? 

Jer.  Nothing  new,  sir;  I  have  dispatched  some  half- 
a-dozen  duns  with  as  much  dexterity  as  a  hungry  judge 
does  causes  at  dinner-time. 

Val.    What  answer  have  you  given  'em? 


156  LOVE   FOR    LOVE  [act  i 

Scan,   Patience,  I  suppose?  the  old  receipt. 

Jer.  No,  faith,  sir;  I  have  put  'em  off  so  long 
with  patience  and  forbearance,  and  other  fair  words, 
that  I  was  forced  now  to  tell  'em  in  plain  downright 
English  —  170 

Val.    What? 

Jer.   That  they  should  be  paid. 

Val.    When? 

Jer.    To-morrow. 

Val.  And  how  the  devil  do  you  mean  to  keep  your 
word? 

Jer.  Keep  it!  not  at  all;  it  has  been  so  very  much 
stretched  that  I  reckon  it  will  break  of  course  by  to- 
morrow, and  nobody  be  surprised  at  the  matter.  — 
[Knocking.]  Again!  —  Sir,  if  you  don't  like  my  nego- 
tiation, will  you  be  pleased  to  answer  these  yourself?    iSi 

Val.  See  who  they  are.  [Exit  Jeremy.]  By  this. 
Scandal,  you  may  see  what  it  is  to  be  great;  secre- 
taries of  state,  presidents  of  the  council,  and  generals 
of  an  army,  lead  just  such  a  life  as  I  do;  have  just 
such  crowds  of  visitants  in  a  morning,  all  soliciting  of 
past  promises;  which  are  but  a  civiler  sort  of  duns, 
that  lay  claim  to  voluntary  debts.  188 

Scan.  And  you,  like  a  true  great  man,  having  engaged 
their  attendance,  and  promised  more  than  ever  you  in- 
tend to  perform,  are  more  perplexed  to  find  evasions 
than  you  would  be  to  invent  the  honest  means  of  keep- 
ing your  word,  and  gratifying  your  creditors. 

Val.  Scandal,  learn  to  spare  your  friends,  and  do  not 
provoke  your  enemies:  this  liberty  of  your  tongue  will 
one  day  bring  a  confinement  on  your  body,  my  friend. 

Re-enter  Jeremy 

Jer.  O  sir,  there's  Trapland  the  scrivener,  with  two 
suspicious  fellows  like  lawful  pads,"  that  would  knock  a 
man  down  with  pocket-tipstaves "  —  and  there's  your 


SCENE  I]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  157 

father's  steward,  and  the  nurse  with  one  of  your  children 
from  Twitnam.  201 

Val.  Pox  on  her!  could  she  find  no  other  time  to 
fling  my  sins  in  my  face?  Here,  give  her  this  [Gives 
money.],  and  bid  her  trouble  me  no  more  —  a  thought- 
less, two-handed  whore!  She  knows  my  condition  well 
enough,  and  might  have  overlaid  the  child  a  fortnight 
ago,  if  she  had  had  any  forecast  in  her. 

Scan.    What,  is  it  bouncing  Margery  with  my  godson? 

Jer.    Yes,  sir.  2og 

Scan.  My  blessing  to  the  boy,  with  this  token  of  my 
love.  —  [Gives  money.]  And,  d'ye  hear,  bid  Margery 
put  more  flocks  in  her  bed,  shift  twice  a-week,  and  not 
work  so  hard,  that  she  may  not  smell  so  vigorously.  I 
shall  take  the  air  shortly. 

Val.  Scandal,  don't  spoil  my  boy's  milk."  --  [To  Jer- 
emy.] Bid  Trapland  come  in.  [Exit  Jeremy.]  If  I  can 
give  that  Cerberus  a  sop,  I  shall  be  at  rest  for  one  day. 

Re-enter  Jeremy  with  Trapland 

Val.  O  Mr.  Trapland,  my  old  friend,  welcome!  — 
Jeremy,  a  chair  quickly;  a  bottle  of  sack  and  a  toast; 
fly  —  a  chair  first.  220 

Trap.  A  good  morning  to  you,  Mr.  Valentine,  and  to 
you,  Mr.  Scandal. 

Scan.  The  morning's  a  very  good  morning,  if  you 
don't  spoil  it. 

Val.    Come  sit  you  down,  you  know  his  way. 

Trap.  [Sits.]  There  is  a  debt,  Mr.  Valentine,  of 
fifteen  hundred  pounds  of  pretty  long  standing  — 

Val.  I  cannot  talk  about  business  with  a  thirsty 
palate.  —  [To  Jeremy.]     Sirrah,  the  sack.  220 

Trap.  And  I  desire  to  know  what  course  you  have 
taken  for  the  payment? 

Val.  Faith  and  troth,  I  am  heartily  glad  to  see  you: 
my  service  to  you.  [Drinks.]  Fill,  fill,  to  honest  Mr. 
Trapland,  fuller. 


158  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  i 

Trap.  Hold,  sweetheart;  this  is  not  to  our  business. 
My  service  to  you,  Mr.  Scandal.  [Drinks.]  I  have  for- 
borne as  long  — 

Vol.  T'other  glass,  and  then  we'll  talk.  —  Fill, 
Jeremy.  239 

Trap.    No  more,  in  truth.  —  I  have  forborne,  I  say  — 

Val.  [To  Jeremy.]  Sirrah,  fill  when  I  bid  you.  — 
[To  Trapland.]  And  how  does  your  handsome  daugh- 
ter?    Come,  a  good  husband  to  her.  [Drinks. 

Trap.   Thank  you.  — I  have  been  out  of  this  money  — 

Val.    Drink  first.  —  Scandal,  why  do  you  not  drink? 

[They  drink. 

Trap.    And  in  short,  I  can  be  put  off  no  longer.        2j6 

Val.  I  was  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  supply:  it 
did  me  signal  service  in  my  necessity.  But  you  delight 
in  doing  good.  ■ —  Scandal,  drink  to  me  my  friend  Trap- 
land's  health.  An  honester  man  lives  not,  nor  one  more 
ready  to  serve  his  friend  in  distress,  though  I  say  it  to 
his  face.     Come,  fill  each  man  his  glass. 

Scan.  What,  I  know  Trapland  has  been  a  whore- 
master,  and  loves  a  wench  still.  You  never  knew  a 
whoremaster  that  was  not  an  honest  fellow. 

Trap.    Fie,  Mr.  Scandal!  you  never  knew  — 

Scan.  What,  don't  I  know?  —  I  know  the  buxom 
black  widow  in  the  Poultry  ° —  eight  hundred  pounds  a 
year,  jointure,  and  twenty  thousand  pounds  in  money. 
Aha,  old  Trap!  260 

Val.  Say  you  so,  i'faith?  Come,  we'll  remember  the 
widow:  I  know  whereabouts  you  are;  come,  to  the 
widow  — 

Trap.   No  more,  indeed. 

Val.  What,  the  widow's  health.  —  [To  Jeremy.] 
Give  it  him  —  Off  with  it.  [They  drink.]  A  lovely 
girl,  i'faith,  black  sparkling  eyes,  soft,  pouting,  ruby  lips; 
better  sealing  there  than  a  bond  for  a  million,  ha! 

Trap.  No,  no,  there's  no  such  thing,  we'd  better  mind 
our  business  —  you're  a  wag.  270 


SCENE  I]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  ,  159 

Val.  No,  faith,  we'll  mind  the  widow's  business,  fill 
again.  —  Pretty,  round,  heaving  breasts,  a  Barbary 
shape,"  and  a  jut  with  her  bum  would  stir  an  anchorite, 
and  the  prettiest  foot!  Oh,  if  a  man  could  but  fasten 
his  eyes  to  her  feet,  as  they  steal  in  and  out,  and  play 
at  bo-peep  under  her  petticoats!  ah,  Mr.  Trapland? 

Trap.  Verily,  give  me  a  glass  —  you're  a  wag  ^  and 
here's  to  the  widow.  [Drinks. 

Scan.  [Aside  to  Valentine.]  He  begins  to  chuckle; 
ply  him  close,  or  he'll  relapse  into  a  dun.  280 

[Exit  Jeremy. 
Enter  Snap 

Snap.  By  your  leave,  gentlemen.  —  Mr.  Trapland,  if 
we  must  do  our  office,  tell  us:  we  have  half-a-dozen 
gentlemen  to  arrest  in  Pall  Mall  and  Covent  Garden; 
and  if  we  don't  make  haste,  the  chairmen  will  be  abroad, 
and  block  up  the  chocolate-houses,  and  then  our  labour's 
lost. 

Trap.  Udso,  that's  true.  —  Mr.  Valentine,  I  love 
mirth,  but  business  must  be  done;   are  you  ready  to  — 

Re-enter  Jeremy 

Jer.  Sir,  your  father's  steward  says  he  comes  to  make 
proposals  concerning  your  debts.  200 

Val.  Bid  him  come  in.  —  Mr.  Trapland,  send  away 
your  officer;    you  shall  have  an  answer  presently. 

Trap.   Mr.  Snap,  stay  within  call.  [Exit  Snap. 

Enter  Steward,  who  whispers  Valentine 

Scan.  Here's  a  dog  now,  a  traitor  in  his  mne;  [To 
Trapland.]  —  sirrah,  refund  the  sack.  —  Jeremy,  fetch 
him  some  water,  or  I'll  rip  up  his  stomach,  and  go  the 
shortest  way  to  his  conscience. 

Trap.    Mr.  Scandal,  you  are  uncivil;   I  did  not  value 


l60  LOVE   FOR    LOVE  [act  i 

your  sack;  but  you  cannot  expect  it  again,  when  I  have 
drunk  it.  300 

Scan.  And  how  do  you  expect  to  have  your  money 
again,  when  a  gentleman  has  spent  it?  . 

Val.  [To  Steward.]  You  need  say  no  more,  I  under- 
stand the  conditions,  they  are  very  hard  but  my  neces- 
sity is  very  pressing;  I  agree  to  'em.  Take  Mr.  Trap- 
land  with  you,  and  let  him  draw  the  writing.  —  Mr. 
Trapland,  you  know  this  man,  he  shall  satisfy  you. 

Trap.  I  am  loath  to  be  thus  pressing,  but  my  neces- 
sity —  3og 

Val.  No  apology,  good  Mr.  Scrivener,  you  shall  be 
paid. 

Trap.  I  hope  you  forgive  me,  my  business  requires  — 
[Exeunt  Trapland,  Steward,  and  Jeremy. 

Scene  II 

The  same 

Valentine,  Scandal  seated 

Scan.   He  begs  pardon  like  a  hangman  at  an  execution. 

Val.    But  I  have  got  a  reprieve. 

Sca7t.    I  am  surprised;  what,  does  your  father  relent? 

Val.  No;  he  has  sent  me  the  hardest  conditions  in  the 
world.  You  have  heard  of  a  booby  brother  of  mine  that 
was  sent  to  sea  three  years  ago?  This  brother  my  father 
hears  is  landed;  whereupon  he  very  affectionately  sends 
me  word,  if  I  will  make  a  deed  of  conveyance  of  my  right 
to  his  estate  after  his  death  to  my  younger  brother,  he 
will  immediately  furnish  me  with  four  thousand  [10 
pounds  to  pay  my  debts,  and  make  my  fortune.  This 
was  once  proposed  before,  and  I  refused  it;  but  the 
present  impatience  of  my  creditors  for  their  money,  and 
my  own  impatience  of  confinement,  and  absence  from 
Angelica,  force  me  to  consent. 


SCENE  II]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  l6l 

Scan.  A  very  desperate  demonstration  of  your  love 
to  Angelica;  and  I  think  she  has  never  given  you  any 
assurance  of  hers. 

Val.  You  know  her  temper;  she  never  gave  me  any 
great  reason  either  for  hope  or  despair.  20 

Scan.  Women  of  her  airy  temper,  as  they  seldom  think 
before  they  act,  so  they  rarely  give  us  any  Hght  to  guess 
at  what  they  mean;  but  you  have  little  reason  to  believe 
that  a  woman  of  this  age,  who  has  had  an  indifference 
for  you  in  your  prosperity,  will  fall  in  love  with  your  ill- 
fortune;  besides,  AngeUca  has  a  great  fortune  of  her  own; 
and  great  fortunes  either  expect  another  great  fortune, 
or  a  fool. 

Enter  Jeremy 

Jer.    More  misfortunes,  sir. 

Val.    What,  another  dun?  30 

Jer.  No,  sir,  but  Mr.  Tattle  is  come  to  wait  upon 
you. 

Val.  Well,  I  can't  help  it  —  you  must  bring  him  up; 
he  knows  I  don't  go  abroad.  [Exit  Jeremy. 

Scan.    Pox  on  him!  I'll  be  gone. 

Val.  No,  prithee,  stay.  Tattle  and  you  should  never 
be  asunder;  you  are  light  and  shadow,  and  show  one  an- 
other; he  is  perfectly  thy  reverse  both  in  humour  and 
understanding;  and,  as  you  set  up  for  defamation,  he  is 
a  mender  of  reputations.  40 

Scan.  A  mender  of  reputations!  aye,  just  as  he  is  a 
keeper  of  secrets,  another  virtue  that  he  sets  up  for  in 
the  same  manner.  For  the  rogue  will  speak  aloud  in  the 
posture  of  a  whisp(ir;"  and  deny  a  woman's  name,  while 
•he  gives  you  the  marks  of  her  person:  he  will  forswear 
receiving  a  letter  from  her,  and  at  the  same  time  show 
you  her  hand  in  the  superscription ;  and  yet  perhaps  he 
has  counterfeited  the  hand  too,  and  sworn  to  a  truth; 
but  he  hopes  not  to  be  believed;  and  refuses  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  lady's  favour,  as  a  doctor  says  No  to  a  bishopric," 

CONGREVE —  II 


l62  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  i 

only  that  it  may  be  granted  him.  —  In  short,  he  is  a 
pubUc  professor  of  secrecy,  and  makes  proclamation 
that  he  holds  private  intelligence.  —  He's  here.  53 

Enter  Tattle 

Tat.  Valentine,  good  morrow;  Scandal,  I  am  yours  — 
that  is,  when  you  speak  well  of  me. 

Scan.  That  is,  when  I  am  yours;  for  while  I  am  my 
own,  or  anybody's  else,  that  will  never  happen. 

Tat.    How  inhuman! 

Vol.  Why,  Tattle,  you  need  not  be  much  concerned 
at  anything  that  he  says:  for  to  converse  with  Scandal, 
is  to  play  at  losing  loadum":  you  must  lose  a  good 
name  to  him,  before  you  can  win  it  for  yourself.  62 

Tat.  But  how  barbarous  that  is,  and  how  unfortunate 
for  him,  that  the  world  should  think  the  better  of  any 
person  for  his  calumniation!  —  I  thank  Heaven,  it  has 
always  been  a  part  of  my  character  to  handle  the  reputa- 
tion of  others  very  tenderly  indeed. 

Scan.  Aye,  such  rotten  reputations  as  you  have  to  deal 
with,  are  to  be  handled  tenderly  indeed. 

Tat.  Nay,  but  why  rotten ;  why  should  you  say  rotten, 
when  you  know  not  the  persons  of  whom  you  speak? 
how  cruel  that  is!  72 

Scan.  Not  know  'em?  why,  thou  never  hadst  to  do 
with  anybody  that  did  not  stink  to  all  the  town. 

Tat.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  nay,  now  you  make  a  jest  of  it 
indeed;  for  there  is  nothing  more  known,  than  that 
nobody  knows  anything  of  that  nature  of  me.  — -  As  I 
hope  to  be  saved,  Valentine,  I  never  exposed  a  woman 
since  I  knew  what  woman  was. 

Val.   And  yet  you  have  conversed  "  with  several.      80 

Tat.  To  be  free  with  you,  I  have  —  I  don't  care  if  1 
own  that;  nay  more  (I'm  going  to  say  a  bold  word 
now),  I  never  could  meddle  with  a  woman  that  had  to 
do  with  anybody  else. 


SCENE  II]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  1 63 

Scan.   How! 

Val.  Nay,  faith,  I'm  apt  to  believe  him.  —  Except  her 
husband,  Tattle. 

Tat.   Oh,  that  — 

Scan.  What  think  you  of  that  noble  commoner  Mrs. 
Drab?  90 

Tat.  Pooh,  I  know  Madam  Drab  has  made  her  brags 
in  three  or  four  places,  that  I  said  this  and  that,  and  writ 
to  her,  and  did  I  know  not  what  —  but  upon  my  reputa- 
tion she  did  me  wrong.  —  Well,  well,  that  was  malice  — 
but  I  know  the  bottom  of  it.  She  was  bribed  to  that  by 
one  we  all  know  —  a  man,  too  —  only  to  bring  me  into 
disgrace  with  a  certain  woman  of  quality  — 

Scan.    Whom  we  all  know.  q8 

Tat.  No  matter  for  that.  —  Yes,  yes,  everybody 
knows  —  no  doubt  on't,  everybody  knows  my  secrets.  — 
But  I  soon  satisfied  the  lady  of  my  innocence;  for  I  told 
her  —  ''Madam,"  says  I,  "there  are  some  persons' who 
make  it  their  business  to  tell  stories,  and  say  this  and  that 
of  one  and  t'other,  and  everything  in  the  world;  and," 
says  I,  "  if  your  grace  —  " 

Scan.    "Grace!" 

Tat.    0  Lord!  what  have  I  said?  my  unlucky  tongue ! 

Val.    Ha!   ha!   ha! 

Scan.  Why,  Tattle,  thou  hast  more  impudence  than 
one  can  in  reason  expect:  I  shall  have  an  esteem  for  thee. 
Well,  and,  ha!  ha!  ha!  well,  go  on:  and  what  did  you 
say  to  her  grace?  112 

Val.    I  confess  this  is  something  extraordinary. 

Tat.  Not  a  word,  as  I  hope  to  be  saved;  an  arrant 
lapsus  lingucB.  —  Come,  let's  talk  of  something  else. 

Val.   Well,  but  how  did  you  acquit  yourself? 

Tat.  Pooh!  pooh!  nothing  at  all,  I  only  rallied  with 
you  —  a  woman  of  ordinary  rank  was  a  little  jealous  of 
me,  and  I  told  her  something  or  other,  faith  —  I  know 
not  what.  —  Come,  let's  talk  of  something  else.         1:0 

[Hums  a  song. 


1 64  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  i 

Scan.  Hang  him,  let  him  alone,  he  has  a  mind  we 
should  inquire. 

Tat.  Valentine,  I  supped  last  night  with  your  mistress, 
and  her  uncle  old  Foresight;  I  think  your  father  lies  at 
Foresight's. 

Val.    Yes. 

Tat.  Upon  my  soul,  Angelica's  a  fine  woman.  —  And 
so  is  Mrs.  Foresight,  and  her  sister  Mrs.  Frail. 

Scan.  -Yes,  Mrs.  Frail  is  a  very  fine  woman;  we  all 
know  her.  130 

Tat.    Oh,  that  is  not  fair! 

Scan.    What? 

Tat.   To  tell. 

Scan.  To  tell  what?  why,  what  do  you  know  of  Mrs. 
Frail? 

Tat.  Who,  I?  Upon  honour,  I  don't  know  whether 
she  be  man  or  woman,  but  by  the  smoothness  of  her 
chin  and  roundness  of  her  hips. 

Scan.    No! 

Tat.   No.  140 

Scan.    She  says  otherwise. 

Tat.    Impossible! 

Scan.   Yes,  faith.     Ask  Valentine  else. 

Tat.  Why  then,  as  I  hope  to  be  saved,  I  believe  a 
woman  only  obliges  a  man  to  secrecy,  that  she  may  have 
the  pleasure  of  telling  herself. 

Scan.  No  doubt  on't.  Well,  but  has  she  done  you 
wrong,  or  no?     You  have  had  her?   ha? 

Tat.  Though  I  have  more  honour  than  to  tell  first,  I 
have  more  manners  than  to  contradict  what  a  lady  has 
declared.  151 

Scan.    Well,  you  own  it? 

Tat.  I  am  strangely  surprised!  —  Yes,  yes,  I  can't 
deny't,  if  she  taxes  me  with  it. 

Scan.  She'll  be  here  by  and  by;  she  sees  Valentine 
every  morning. 

Tat.   How? 


SCENE  II]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  1 65 

Val.  She  does  me  the  favour,  I  mean,  of  a  visit  some- 
times. I  did  not  think  she  had  granted  more  to  any- 
body. 160 

Scan.  Nor  I,  faith;  but  Tattle  does  not  use  to  behe  a 
lady;  it  is  contrary  to  his  character.  —  How  one  may  be 
deceived  in  a  woman,  Valentine! 

7  a/.    Nay,  what  do  you  mean,  gentlemen? 

Scan.   I'm  resolved  I'll  ask  her. 

Tat.   O  barbarous !  why,  did  you  not  tell  me  — 

Scan.   No,  you  told  us. 

Tat.   And  bid  me  ask  Valentine? 

Val.  What  did  I  say?  I  hope  you  won't  bring  me 
to  confess  an  answer,  when  you  never  asked  me  the 
question?  171 

Tat.  But,  gentlemen,  this  is  the  most  inhuman  pro- 
ceeding — 

Val.  Nay,  if  you  have  known  Scandal  thus  long,  and 
cannot  avoid  such  a  palpable  decoy  as  this  was,  the 
ladies  have  a  fine  time  whose  reputations  are  in  your 
keeping. 

Re-enter  Jeremy 

Jer.  Sir,  Mrs.  Frail  has  sent  to  know  if  you  are 
stirring. 

Val.   Show  her  up  when  she  comes.        [Exit  Jeremy. 

Tat.   I'll  be  gone.  181 

Val.   You'll  meet  her. 

Tat.   Is  there  not  a  back  way? 

Val.  If  there  were,  you  have  more  discretion  than  to 
give  Scandal  such  an  advantage;  why,  your  running 
away  will  prove  all  that  he  can  tell  her. 

Tat.  Scandal,  you  will  not  be  so  ungenerous?  —  Oh,  I 
shall  lose  my  reputation  of  secrecy  for  ever !  —  I  shall 
never  be  received  but  upon  public  days;  and  my  visits 
will  never  be  admitted  beyond  a  drawing-room :  I  shall 
never  see  a  bedchamber  again,  never  be  locked  in  a 
closet,   nor  run  behind  a   screen,  or   under   a   table; 


l66  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  i 

never  be  distinguished  among  the  waiting-women  by 
the  name  of  trusty  Mr.  Tattle  more.  —  You  will  not 
be  so  cruel.  195 

Val.  Scandal,  have  pity  on  him;  he'll  yield  to  any 
conditions. 

Tai.   Any,  any  terms. 

Scan.  Come,  then,  sacrifice  half-a-dozen  women  of 
good  reputation  to  me  presently.  —  Come,  where  are  you 
familiar?  —  And  see  that  they  are  women  of  quality  too, 
the  first  quality.  202 

Tat.    'Tis  very  hard.  —  Won't  a  baronet's  lady  pass? 

Scan.    No,  nothing  under  a  right  honourable." 

Tat.   0  inhuman!  you  don't  expect  their  names? 

Scan.   No,  their  titles  shall  serve. 

Tat.  Alas!  that's  the  same  thing:  pray  spare  me  their 
titles;   I'll  describe  their  persons. 

Scan.  Well,  begin  then :  but  take  notice,  if  you  are  so 
ill  a  painter,  that  I  cannot  know  the  person  by  your 
picture  of  her,  you  must  be  condemned,  like  other  bad 
painters,  to  write  the  name  at  the  bottom.  212 

Tat.   Well,  first  then  — 

Enter  Mrs.  Frail 

Tat.  Oh,  unfortunate:  she's  come  already;  will  you 
have  patience  till  another  time  —  I'll  double  the  number. 

Scan.  Well,  on  that  condition.  —  Take  heed  you  don't 
fail  me. 

Mrs.  Frail.  I  shall  get  a  fine  reputation  by  coming 
to  see  fellows  in  a  morning.  —  Scandal,  you  devil,  are 
you  here  too?  —  Oh,  Mr.  Tattle,  everything  is  safe  with 
you,  we  know.  221 

Scan.   Tattle! 

Tat.   Mum.  —  0  madam,  you  do  me  too  much  honour. 

Val.   Well,  lady  galloper,  how  does  Angelica? 

Mrs.  Frail.   Angelica?    manners! 

Val.   What,  you  will  allow  an  absent  lover  — 


SCENE  ii]  LOVE   FOR    LOVE  1 6/ 

Mrs.  Frail.  No,  I'll  allow  a  lover  present  with  his 
mistress  to  be  particular  —  but  otherwise  I  think  his 
passion  ought  to  give  place  to  his  manners. 

Val.  But  what  if  he  has  more  passion  than  man- 
ners? 231 

Mrs.  Frail.   Then  let  him  marry  and  reform. 

Val.  Marriage  indeed  may  qualify  the  fury  of  his 
passion,  but  it  very  rarely  mends  a  man's  manners. 

Mrs.  Frail.  You  are  the  most  mistaken  in  the  world; 
there  is  no  creature  perfectly  civil  but  a  husband.  For 
in  a  little  time  he  grows  only  rude  to  his  wife,  and  that 
is  the  highest  good  breeding,  for  it  begets  his  civility  to 
other  people.  —  Well,  I'll  tell  you  news;  but  I  suppose 
you  hear  your  brother  Benjamin  is  landed.  And  my 
brother  Foresight's  daughter  is  come  out  of  the  country 
—  I  assure  you  there's  a  match  talked  of  by  the  old 
people.  —  Well,  if  he  be  but  as  great  a  sea-beast  as  she 
is  a  land  monster,  we  shall  have  a  most  amphibious 
breed.  —  The  progeny  will  be  all  otters;  he  has  been  bred 
at  sea,  and  she  has  never  been  out  of  the  country.       246 

Val.  Pox  take  'em!  their  conjunction  bodes  me  no 
good,  I'm  sure. 

Mrs.  Frail.  Now  you  talk  of  conjunction,  my  brother 
Foresight  has  cast  both  their  nativities,"  and  prognosti- 
cates an  admiral  and  an  eminent  justice  of  the  peace  to  be 
the  issue  male  of  their  two  bodies.  —  'Tis  the  most  super- 
stitious old  fool !  He  would  have  persuaded  me  that  this 
was  an  unlucky  day,  and  would  not  let  me  come  abroad; 
but  I  invented  a  dream,  and  sent  him  to  Artemidorus  ° 
for  interpretation,  and  so  stole  out  to  see  you.  Well,  and 
what  will  you  give  me  now?  come,  I  must  have  some- 
thing. 258 

Val.  Step  into  the  next  room — and  I'll  give  you  some- 
thing. 

Scan.   Aye,  we'll  all  give  ypn  something. 

Mrs.  Frail.    Well,  what  will  you  all  give  me? 

Val.   Mine's  a  secret. 


1 68  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  i 

Mrs.  Frail.  I  thought  you  would  give  me  something 
that  would  be  a  trouble  to  you  to  keep. 

Val.   And  Scandal  shall  give  you  a  good  name. 

Mrs.  Frail.  That's  more  than  he  has  for  himself.  — 
And  what  will  you  give  me,  Mr.  Tattle? 

Tat.   I?  my  soul,  madam. 

Mrs.  Frail.  Pooh,  no,  I  thank  you,  I  have  enough  to 
do  to  take  care  of  my  own.  Well;  but  I'll  come  and 
see  you  one  of  these  mornings:  I  hear  you  have  a  great 
many  pictures.  273 

Tat.  I  have  a  pretty  good  collection  at  your  service, 
some  originals. 

Scan.  Hang  him,  he  has  nothing  but  the  Seasons  and 
the  Twelve  Caesars,  paltry  copies;  and  the  Five  Senses," 
as  ill-represented  as  they  are  in  himself;  and  he  himself 
is  the  only  original  you  will  see  there. 

Mrs.  Frail.   Aye,  but  I  hear  he  has  a  closet  of  beauties. 

Scan.  Yes,  all  that  have  done  him  favours,  if  you  will 
believe  him.  282 

Mrs.  Frail.   Aye,  let  me  see  those,  Mr.  Tattle. 

Tat.  Oh,  madam,  those  are  sacred  to  love  and  contem- 
plation. No  man  but  the  painter  and  myself  was  ever 
blessed  with  the  sight. 

Mrs.  Frail.   Well,  but  a  woman  — 

Tat.  Nor  woman,  'till  she  consented  to  have  her 
picture  there  too  —  for  then  she's  obliged  to  keep  the 
secret.  290 

Scan.   No,  no;  come  to  me  if  you'd  see  pictures. 

Mrs.  Frail.    You? 

Scan.  Yes,  faith,  I  can  show  you  your  own  picture, 
and  most  of  your  acquaintance  to  the  life,  and  as  like  as 
at  Kneller's." 

Mrs.  Frail.  O  lying  creature!  —  Valentine,  does  not 
he  lie?  —  I  can't  believe  a  word  he  says. 

Val.  No,  indeed,  he  speaks  truth  now;  for  as 
Tattle  has  pictures  of  all  that  have  granted  him 
favours,  he  has  the  pictures  of  all  that  have  refused 


SCENE  li]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  1 69 

him;  if  satires,  descriptions,  characters,  and  lampoons 
are   pictures.  302 

Scan.  Yes,  mine  are  most  in  black  and  white;  and  yet 
there  are  some  set  out  in  their  true  colours,  both  men 
and  women.  I  can  show  you  pride,  folly,  affectation, 
wantonness,  inconstancy,  covetousness,  dissimulation, 
malice,  and  ignorance,  all  in  one  piece.  Then  I  can  show 
you  lying,  foppery,  vanity,  cowardice,  bragging,  lechery, 
impotence,  and  ugUness  in  another  piece;  and  yet  one  of 
these  is  a  celebrated  beauty,  and  t'other  a  professed  beau. 
I  have  paintings  too,  some  pleasant  enough.  3" 

Mrs.  Frail.    Come,  let's  hear  'em. 

Scan.  Why,  I  have  a  beau  in  a  bagnio,  cupping  for  a 
complexion,"  and  sweating  for  a  shape. 

Mrs.  Frail.    So. 

Scan.  Then  I  have  a  lady  burning  brandy  in  a  cellar 
with  a  hackney-coachman." 

Mrs.  Frail.  0  devil!  Well,  but  that  story  is  not 
true.  ■  310 

Scan.  I  have  some  hieroglyphics"  too;  I  have  a  lawyer 
with  a  hundred  hands,  two  heads,  and  but  one  face;  a 
divine  with  two  faces,  and  one  head;  and  I  have  a  sol- 
dier with  his  brains  in  his  belly,  and  his  heart  where  his 
head  should  be. 

Mrs.  Frail.   And  no  head? 

Scan.    No  head. 

Mrs.  Frail.  Pooh,  this  is  all  invention.  Have  you 
ne'er  a  poet?  328 

Scan.  Yes,  I  have  a  poet  weighing  words,  and  selling 
praise  for  praise,  and  a  critic  picking  his  pocket.  I  have 
another  large  piece  too,  representing  a  school,  where  there 
are  huge-proportioned  critics,  with  long  wigs,  laced  coats, 
Steenkirk  cravats"  and  terrible  faces;  with  catcalls  in 
their  hands,  and  horn-books  about  their  necks."  I  have 
many  more  of  this  kind,  very  well  painted  as  you  shall 
see. 

Mrs.  Frail.  Well,  I'll  come,  if  it  be  but  to  disprove  you. 


170  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  I 

Re-enter  Jeremy 

Jer,   Sir,  here's  the  steward  again  from  your  father. 

Val.  I'll  come  to  him,  —  Will  you  give  me  leave?  I'll 
wait  on  you  again  presently.  340 

Mrs.  Frail.  No,  I'll  be  gone.  Come,  who  squires  me 
to  the  Exchange?"  I  must  call  my  sister  Foresight 
there. 

Scan.   I  will:  I  have  a  mind  to  your  sister. 

Mrs.  Frail.    Civil! 

Tat.   I  will,  because  I  have  a  tendre  for  your  ladyship. 

Mrs.  Frail.  That's  somewhat  the  better  reason,  to  my 
opinion. 

Scan.  Well,  if  Tattle  entertains  you,  I  have  the  better 
opportunity  to  engage  your  sister.  35° 

Val.  Tell  Angelica,  I  am  about  making  hard  condi- 
tions to  come  abroad,  and  be  at  liberty  to  see  her. 

Scan.  I'll  give  an  account  of  you  and  your  proceed- 
ings. If  indiscretion  be  a  sign  of  love,  you  are  the  most 
a  lover  of  anybody  that  I  know:  you  fancy  that  parting 
with  your  estate  will  help  you  to  your  mistress.  —  In 
my  mind  he  is  a  thoughtless  adventurer, 

Who  hopes  to  purchase  wealth  by  selling  land 

Or  win  a  mistress  with  a  losing  hand.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  THE   SECOND 

Scene  I 

A  Room  in  Foresight's  House 

Foresight  and  Servant 

Fore.  Heyday!  What,  are  all  the  women  of  my 
family  abroad?  Is  not  my  wife  come  home,  nor  my 
sister,  nor  my  daughter? 

Ser.    No,  sir. 

Fore.  Mercy  on  us,  what  can  be  the  meaning  of  it? 
Sure  the  moon  is  in  all  her  fortitudes."  Is  my  niece 
Angelica  at  home? 

Ser.    Yes,  sir. 

Fore.   I  believe  you  lie,  sir. 

Ser.   Sir?  lo 

Fore.  I  say  you  lie,  sir.  It  is  impossible  that  anything 
should  be  as  I  would  have  it;  for  I  was  born,  sir,  v/hen 
the  Crab  was  ascending,  and  all  my  affairs  go  backward. 

Ser.   I  can't  tell,  indeed,  sir. 

Fore.  No,  I  know  you  can't,  sir;  but  I  can  tell,  sir, 
and  foretell,  sir. 

Enter  Nurse 

Fore.    Nurse,  where's  your  young  mistress? 

Nurse.  Wee'st  heart,"  I  know  not,  they're  none  of  'em 
come  home  yet.  Poor  child!  I  warrant  she's  fond  o' 
seeing  the  town;  marry,  pray  Heaven,  they  ha'  given  her 
any  dinner.  —  Good  lack-a-day,  ha!  ha!  ha!  Oh, 
strange!  I'll  vow  and  swear  now  —  ha!  ha!  ha!  marry, 
and  did  you  ever  see  the  like?  23 

171 


172  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  ii 

Fore.    Why,  how  now,  what's  the  matter? 

Nurse.  Pray  Heaven  send  your  worship  good  luck! 
marry  and  amen  with  all  my  heart;  for  you  have  put  on 
one  stocking  with  the  wrong  side  outward. 

Fore.  Ha,  how?  faith  and  troth  I'm  glad  of  it!  —  And 
so  I  have;  that  may  be  good  luck  in  troth,  in  troth  it 
may,  very  good  luck;  nay,  I  have  had  some  omens:  I  [30 
got  out  of  bed  backwards  too  this  morning,  without  pre- 
meditation; pretty  good  that,  too;  but  then  I  stumbled 
coming  downstairs,  and  met  a  weasel;  bad  omens  those: 
some  bad,  some  good,  our  lives  are  chequered;  mirth 
and  sorrow,  want  and  plenty,  night  and  day,  make  up 
our  time.  —  But  in  troth  I  am  pleased  at  my  stocking; 
very  well  pleased  at  my  stocking.  —  Oh,  here's  my  niece! 
—  Sirrah,  go  tell  Sir  Sampson  Legend  I'll  wait  on  him  if 
he's  at  leisure;  'tis  now  three  o'clock,  a  very  good  hour 
for  business.     Mercury  governs  this  hour.  40 

[Exit  Servant. 

Enter  Angelica 

Ang.  Is  it  not  a  good  hour  for  pleasure  too,  uncle? 
pray  lend  me  your  coach,  mine's  out  of  order. 

Fore.  What,  would  you  be  gadding  too?  sure  all 
females  are  mad  to-day.  It  is  of  evil  portent,  and  bodes 
mischief  to  the  master  of  a  family.  —  I  remember  an  old 
prophecy  written  by  Messahalah  the  Arabian  "  and  thus 
translated  by  a  reverend  Buckinghamshire  bard:  — 

"IF//ew  housewives  all  the  house  forsake, 
And  leave  goodman  to  brew  and  bake, 
Withoiiten  guile  then  be  it  said,  so 

That  house  doth  stand  upon  its  head; 
And  when  the  head  is  set  in  ground, 
Ne  marble"  if  it  be  fruitful  found." 

Fruitful,  the  head  fruitful;   that  bodes  horns;   the  fruit 
of  the  head  is  horns.  —  Dear  niece,  stay  at  home;  for 


SCENE  I]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  1 73 

l)y  the  head  of  the  house  is  meant  the  husband;    the 
prophecy  needs  no  explanation. 

Aug.  Well,  but  I  can  neither  make  you  a  cuckold, 
uncle,  by  going  abroad;  nor  secure  you  from  being  one, 
by  staying  at  home.  60 

Fore.  Yes,  yes;  while  there's  one  woman  left,  the 
prophecy  is  not  in  full  force. 

Aug.  But  my  inclinations  are  in  force;  I  have  a  mind 
to  go  abroad;  and  if  you  won't  lend  me  your  coach,  I'll 
take  a  hackney,  or  a  chair,  and  leave  you  to  erect  a 
scheme,"  and  find  who's  in  conjunction  with  your  wife. 
Why  don't  you  keep  her  at  home,  if  you're  jealous  of  her 
when  she's  abroad?  You  know  my  aunt  is  a  little  retro- 
grade (as  you  call  it)  in  her  nature.  Uncle,  I'm  afraid 
you  are  not  lord  of  the  ascendant,"  ha!   ha!   ha!  70 

Fore.  Well,  gill-flirt,  you  are  very  pert  —  and  always 
ridiculing  that  celestial  science. 

Ang.  Nay,  uncle,  don't  be  angry;  if  you  are,  I'll  rip 
up  all  your  false  prophecies,  ridiculous  dreams,  and  idle 
divinations:  I'll  swear  you  are  a  nuisance  to  the  neigh- 
bourhood. —  What  a  bustle  did  you  keep  against  the  last 
invisible  eclipse,  laying  in  provision,  as  'twere  for  a  siege! 
What  a  world  of  fire  and  candle,  matches  and  tinder- 
boxes  did  you  purchase!  One  would  have  thought  we 
were  ever  after  to  live  underground,  or  at  least  making 
a  voyage  to  Greenland,  to  inhabit  there  all  the  dark 
season.  82 

Fore.   Why,  you  malapert  slut! 

Ang.  Will  you  lend  me  your  coach,  or  I'll  go  on?  — 
Nay,  I'll  declare  how  you  prophesied  popery  was  com- 
ing, only  because  the  butler  had  mislaid  some  of  the 
apostle  spoons,"  and  thought  they  were  lost.  Away 
went  religion  and  spoon-meat  together.  —  Indeed,  uncle, 
I'll  indict  you  for  a  wizard. 

Fore.  How,  hussy!  was  there  ever  such  a  provoking 
minx !  91 

Nurse.  O  merciful  Father,  how  she  talks! 


174  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  ii 

Ang.  Yes,  I  can  make  oath  of  your  unlawful  midnight 
practices;    you  and  the  old  nurse  there  — 

Nurse.  Marry,  Heaven  defend!  —  I  at  midnight  prac- 
tices!—  0  Lord,  what's  here  to  do!  —  I  in  unlawful 
doings  with  my  master's  worship!  —  Why,  did  you  ever 
hear  the  like,  now?  —  Sir,  did  ever  I  do  anything  of  your 
midnight  concerns  —  but  warm  your  bed,  and  tuck  you 
up,  and  set  the  candle  and  your  tobacco-box  and  your 
urinal  by  you,  and  now  and  then  rub  the  soles  of  your 
feet?  —  O  Lord,  I?  —  102 

Ang.  Yes,  I  saw  you  together,  through  the  keyhole  of 
the  closet,  one  night,  like  Saul  and  the  witch  of  Endor," 
turning  the  sieve  and  shears,"  and  pricking  your  thumbs 
to  write  poor  innocent  servants'  names  in  blood,"  about  a 
little  nutmeg-grater,  which  she  had  forgot  in  the  caudle- 
cup.  —  Nay,  I  know  something  worse,  if  I  would  speak 
of  it.  109 

Fore.  I  defy  you,  hussy!  but  I'll  remember  this,  I'll  be 
revenged  on  you,  cockatrice;  I'll  hamper  you.  —  You 
have  your  fortune  in  your  own  hands  —  but  I'll  find  a 
way  to  make  your  lover,  your  prodigal  spendthrift 
gallant,  Valentine,  pay  for  all,  I  will. 

Ang.  Will  you?  I  care  not  but  all  shall  out  then.  — 
Look  to't,  nurse;  I  can  bring  witness  that  you  have  a 
great  unnatural  teat  under  your  left  arm,  and  he  another; 
and  that  you  suckle  a  young  devil  in  the  shape  of  a  tabby 
cat,  by  turns,  I  can.  119 

Nurse.  A  teat!  a  teat!  I  an  unnatural  teat!  Oh,  the 
false,  slanderous  thing;  feel,  feel  here,  if  I  have  anything 
but  like  another  Christian.  [Crying. 

Fore.  I  will  have  patience,  since  it  is  the  will  of  the 
stars  I  should  be  thus  tormented.  —  This  is  the  effect  of 
the  malicious  conjunctions  and  oppositions  in  the  third 
house  of  my  nativity;"  there  the  curse  of  kindred  was 
foretold.  —  But  I  will  have  my  doors  locked  up  —  I'll 
punish  you,  not  a  man  shall  enter  my  house.  12S 

Ang.   Do,  uncle,  lock  'em  up  quickly  before  my  aunt 


SCENE  I]  LOVE   FOR    LOVE  175 

comes  home;  you'll  have  a  letter  for  alimony  to-raorrow 
morning  —  but  let  me  be  gone  first,  and  then  let  no 
mankind "  come  near  the  house,  but  converse  with  spirits 
and  the  celestial  signs,  the  Bull,  and  the  Ram,  and 
the  Goat."  Bless  me!  there  are  a  great  many  horned 
beasts  among  the  twelve  signs,  uncle  —  but  cuckolds 
go  to  Heaven. 

Fore.  But  there's  but  one  virgin  among  the  twelve 
signs,  spitfire,  but  one  virgin. 

Aug.  Nor  there  had  not  been  that  one,  if  she  had  had 
to  do  with  anything  but  astrologers,  uncle.  That  makes 
my  aunt  go  abroad.  141 

Fore.  How?  how?  is  that  the  reason?  Come,  you 
know  something:  tell  me  and  I'll  forgive  you;  do,  good 
niece.  —  Come,  you  shall  have  my  coach  and  horses  — 
faith  and  troth  you  shall.  —  Does  my  wife  complain? 
come,  I  know  women  tell  one  another.  —  She  is  young 
and  sanguine,  has  a  wanton  hazel  eye,  and  was  born 
under  Gemini,  which  may  incline  her  to  society;  she  has 
a  mole  upon  her  lip,"  with  a  moist  palm,"  and  an  open 
liberality  on  the  mount  of  Venus."  150 

Ang.   Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Fore.  Do  you  laugh?  —  Well,  gentlewoman,  I'll  — 
but  come,  be  a  good  girl,  don't  perplex  your  poor 
uncle,  tell  me;   won't  you  speak?  —  Odd,  I'll  — 

Re-enter  Servant 

Ser.    Sir  Sampson  is  coming  down  to  wait  upon  you. 

Ang.  Good-b'w'ye,"  uncle.  —  Call  me  a  chair.  —  [Exit 
Servant.]  I'll  find  out  my  aunt,  and  tell  her  she  must 
not  come  home.  [Exit. 

Fore.  I'm  so  perplexed  and  vexed,  I  am  not  fit  to 
receive  him;  I  shall  scarce  recover  myself  before  the  hour 
be  past.  —  Go,  nurse,  tell  Sir  Sampson  I'm  ready  to 
wait  on  him.  162 

Nurse.   Yes,  sir. 


176  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  ii 

Fore.  Well  —  why,  if  I  was  born  to  be  a  cuckold 
there's  no  more  to  be  said  —  he's  here  already. 

Enter  Sir  Sampson  tvith  a  paper 

Sir  Samp.  Nor  no  more  to  be  done,  old  boy;  that's 
plain.  —  Here  'tis,  I  have  it  in  my  hand,  old  Ptolemy;  ° 
I'll  make  the  ungracious  prodigal  know  who  begat  him; 
I  will,  old  Nostrodamus."  What,  I  warrant  my  son 
thought  nothing  belonged  to  a  father  but  forgiveness  [170 
and  afifection;  no  authority,  no  correction,  no  arbitrary 
power;  nothing  to  be  done,  but  for  him  to  offend,  and 
me  to  pardon.  I  warrant  you,  if  he  danced  till  dooms- 
day, he  thought  I  was  to  pay  the  piper.  Well,  but  here 
it  is  under  black  and  white,  signatum,  sigillatum,  and 
deliheratum: "  that  as  soon  as  my  son  Benjamin  is  arrived, 
he  is  to  make  over  to  him  his  right  of  inheritance. 
Where's  my  daughter  that  is  to  be  —  ha!  old  Merhn! 
body  o'  me,  I'm  so  glad  I'm  revenged  on  this  undutiful 
rogue.  180 

Fore.  Odso,  let  me  see;  let  me  see  the  paper.  —  Aye, 
faith  and  troth,  here  'tis,  if  it  will  but  hold.  I  wish 
things  were  done,  and  the  conveyance  made.  When 
was  this  signed,  what  hour?  Odso,  you  should  have 
consulted  me  for  the  time.     Well,  but  we'll  make  haste. 

Sir  Samp.  Haste,  aye,  aye;  haste  enough,  my  son  Ben 
will  be  in  town  to-night.  —  I  have  ordered  my  lawyer  to 
draw  up  writings  of  settlement  and  jointure  —  all  shall 
be  done  to-night.  No  matter  for  the  time:  prithee, 
Brother  Foresight,  leave  superstition.  Pox  o'  th'  [190 
time!  there's  no  time  but  the  time  present,  there's  no 
more  to  be  said  of  what's  past,  and  all  that  is  to  come 
will  happen.  If  the  sun  shine  by  day,  and  the  stars  by 
night,  why,  we  shall  know  one  another's  faces  without 
the  help  of  a  candle,  and  that's  all  the  stars  are  good  for. 

Fore.  How,  how.  Sir  Sampson?  that  all?  Give  me 
leave  to  contradict  you,  and  tell  you,  you  are  ignorant. 


SCENE  I]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  1 77 

Sir  Samp.  I  tell  you  I  am  wise;  a.nd  sapiens  dominabi- 
tur  astris;"^  there's  Latin  for  you  to  prove  it,  and  an  argu- 
ment to  confound  your  ephemeris.  —  Ignorant!  —  I  tell 
you,  I  have  travelled,  old  Fircu,°  and  know  the  globe. 
I  have  seen  the  antipodes,  where  the  sun  rises  at  mid- 
night, and  sets  at  noonday.  203 

Fore.  But  I  tell  you,  I  have  travelled,  and  travelled  in 
the  celestial  spheres,  know  the  signs  and  the  planets,  and 
their  houses.  Can  judge  of  motions  direct  and  retro- 
grade, of  sextiles,  quadrates,  trines  and  oppositions,  fiery 
trigons  and  aquatical  trigons."  Know  whether  life  shall 
be  long  or  short,  happy  or  unhappy,  whether  diseases  are 
curable  or  incurable.  If  journeys  shall  be  prosperous, 
undertakings  successful;  or  goods  stolen  recovered,  I 
know  —  212 

Sir  Samp.  I  know  the  length  of  the  Emperor  of 
China's  foot;  have  kissed  the  Great  Mogul's  slipper,  and 
rid  a-hunting  upon  an  elephant  with  the  Cham  of  Tar- 
tary.  —  Body  o'  me,  I  have  made  a  cuckold  of  a  king, 
and  the  present  majesty  of  Bantam  is  the  issue  of  these 
loins. 

Fore.  I  know  when  travellers  lie  or  speak  truth,  when 
they  don't  know  it  themselves.  220 

^■^V  Samp.  I  have  known  an  astrologer  made  a  cuckold 
in  the  twinkling  of  a  star;  and  seen  a  conjurer  that  could 
not  keep  the  devil  out  of  his  wife's  circle." 

Fore.  [Aside.]  What,  does  he  twit  me  with  my  wife 
too?  I  must  be  better  informed  of  this.  —  [Aloud.] 
Do  you  mean  my  wife,  Sir  Sampson?  Though  you  made 
a  cuckold  of  the  King  of  Bantam,  yet  by  the  body  of  the 
sun  — 

Sir  Samp.  By  the  horns  of  the  moon,  you  would  say, 
brother  Capricorn."  2^0 

Fore.  Capricorn  in  your  teeth,  thou  modern  Mande- 
ville ! "  Ferdinand  Mendez  Pinto  "  was  but  a  type  of  thee, 
thou  liar  of  the  first  magnitude!  Take  back  your  paper 
of  inheritance;  send  your  son  to  sea  again.     I'll  wed  my 

CONGRKVii  —  12 


1/8  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  ii 

daughter  to  an  Egyptian  mummy,  ere  she  shall  incor- 

\porate  with  a  contemner  of  sciences,  and  a  defamer  of 

virtue.  237 

Sir  Samp.  [Aside.]  Body  o'  me,  I  have  gone  too  far; 
I  must  not  provoke  honest  Albumazar."  —  [Aloud.]  An 
Egyptian  mummy  is  an  illustrious  creature,  my  trusty 
hieroglyphic;  and  may  have  significations  of  futurity 
about  him;  odsbud,  I  would  my  son  were  an  Egyptian 
mummy  for  thy  sake.  What,  thou  art  not  angry  for  a 
jest,  my  good  Haly?  "^  —  I  reverence  the  sun,  moon,  and 
stars  with  all  my  heart.  What,  I'll  make  thee  a  present 
of  a  mummy:  nov/  I  think  on't,  body  o'  me,  I  have  a 
shoulder  of  an  Egyptian  king,  that  I  purloined  from  one 
of  the  pyramids,  powdered  with  hieroglyphics;"  thou 
shalt  have  it  brought  home  to  thy  house,  and  make  an 
entertainment  for  all  the  philomaths,  and  students  in 
physic  and  astrology,  in  and  about  London.  251 

Fore.  But  what  do  you  know  of  my  wife.  Sir  Samp- 
son? 

Sir  Samp.  Thy  wife  is  a  constellation  of  virtues;  she's 
the  moon,  and  thou  art  the  man  in  the  moon:  nay,  she 
is  more  illustrious  than  the  moon;  for  she  has  her  chas- 
tity without  her  inconstancy;    'sbud,  I  was  but  in  jest. 

Enter  Jeremy 

Sir  Samp.  How  now,  who  sent  for  you?  ha!  what 
would  you  have?  [Jeremy  whispers  to  Sir  Sampson. 

Fore.  Nay,  if  you  were  but  in  jest  —  Who's  that 
fellow?     I  don't  like  his  physiognomy.  261 

Sir  Samp.  [To  Jeremy.]  My  son,  sir;  what  son,  sir? 
my  son  Benjamin,  hoh? 

Jer.  No,  sir;  Mr.  Valentine,  my  master.  —  'Tis  the 
first  time  he  has  been  abroad  since  his  confinement,  and 
he  comes  to  pay  his  duty  to  you. 

Sir  Samp.    Well,  sir. 


SCENE  I]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  1 79 

Enter  Valentine 

Jer.   He  is  here,  sir. 

Val.    Your  blessing,  sir. 

Sir  Samp.  You've  had  it  already,  sir.  I  think  I  sent 
it  you  to-day  in  a  bill  of  four  thousand  pounds.  —  A 
great  deal  of  money.  Brother  Foresight.  272 

Fore.  Aye,  indeed,  Sir  Sampson,  a  great  deal  of  money 
for  a  young  man;   I  wonder  what  he  can  do  with  it. 

Sir  Samp.  Body  o'  me,  so  do  I.  —  Hark  ye,  Valentine, 
if  there  be  too  much,  refund  the  superfluity,  dost  hear, 
boy? 

Val.  Superfluity,  sir!  it  will  scarce  pay  my  debts.  I 
hope  you  will  have  more  indulgence  than  to  oblige  me 
to  those  hard  conditions  which  my  necessity  signed  to. 

Sir  Samp.  Sir,  how,  I  beseech  you,  what  were  you 
pleased  to  intimate  concerning  indulgence?  2S2 

Val.  Why,  sir,  that  you  would  not  go  to  the  extremity 
of  the  conditions,  but  release  me  at  least  from  some  part. 

Sir  Samp.    Oh,  sir,  I  understand  you  —  that's  all,  ha? 

Val.  Yes,  sir,  all  that  I  presume  to  ask;  but  what 
you,  out  of  fatherly  fondness,  will  be  pleased  to  add  shall 
be  doubly  welcome.  288 

Sir  Samp.  No  doubt  of  it,  sweet  sir,  but  your  filial 
piety  and  my  fatherly  fondness  would  fit  like  two  tallies. 

—  Here's  a  rogue.  Brother  Foresight,  makes  a  bargain 
under  hand  and  seal  in  the  morning,  and  would  be  re- 
leased from  it  in  the  afternoon;  here's  a  rogue,  dog, 
here's  conscience  and  honesty;  this  is  your  wit  now,  this 
is  the  morality  of  your  wits!  You  are  a  wit,  and  have 
been  a  beau,  and  may  be  a  —  why,  sirrah,  is  it  not  here 
under  hand  and  seal?     Can  you  deny  it? 

Val.    Sir,  I  don't  deny  it.  298 

Sir  Samp.   Sirrah,  you'll  be  hanged;  I  shall  live  to  see 

you  go  up  Holborn  Hill."  —  Has  he  not  a  rogue's  face? 

—  Speak,  brother,  you  understand  physiognomy,  a  hang- 
ing look  to  me;   of  all  my  boys  the  most  unlike  me;   he 


l8o  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  ii 

has  a  damned  Tyburn-face,  without  the  benefit  o'  the 
clergy." 

Fore.  Hum  —  truly  I  don't  care  to  discourage  a  young 
man.  He  has  a  violent  death  in  his  face;  but  I  hope 
no  danger  of  hanging. 

Val.  Sir,  is  this  usage  for  your  son?  —  for  that  old 
weather-headed  fool,  I  know  how  to  laugh  at  him;  but 
you,  sir —  310 

Sir  Samp.  You,  sir;  and  you,  sir  —  why,  who  are  you, 
sir? 

Val.   Your  son,  sir. 

Sir  Samp.  That's  more  than  I  know,  sir,  and  I  believe 
not. 

Val.    Faith,  I  hope  not. 

Sir  Samp.  What,  would  you  have  your  mother  a 
whore!  —  Did  you  ever  hear  the  Uke!  did  you  ever  hear 
the  like!     Body  o'  me  — 

Val.  I  would  have  an  excuse  for  your  barbarity  and 
unnatural  usage.  321 

Sir  Samp.  Excuse!  impudence!  Why,  sirrah,  mayn't 
I  do  what  I  please?  Are  not  you  my  slave?  Did  not  I 
beget  you?  And  might  not  I  have  chosen  whether  I 
would  have  begot  you  or  no?  Oons!  who  are  you? 
whence  came  you?  what  brought  you  into  the  world? 
how  came  you  here,  sir?  Here,  to  stand  here,  upon 
those  two  legs,  and  look  erect  with  that  audacious  face, 
hah?  Answer  me  that?  Did  you  come  a  volunteer 
into  the  world?  Or  did  I,  with  the  lawful  authority 
of  a  parent,  press  you  to  the  service?  331 

Val.  I  know  no  more  why  I  came  than  you  do  why 
you  called  me.  But  here  I  am,  and  if  you  don't  mean 
to  provide  for  me,  I  desire  you  would  leave  me  as  you 

found  me. 

Sir  Samp.  With  all  my  heart:  come,  uncase,  strip, 
and  go  naked  out  of  the  world  as  you  came  into't. 

Val.  My  clothes  are  soon  put  off;  but  you  must  also 
divest  me  of  reason,   thought,  passions,  inclinations, 


SCENE  I]  LOVE  FOR  LOVE  l8l 

affections,    appetites,    senses,    and    the    huge    train    of 
attendants  that  you  begot  along  with  me.  341 

Sir  Samp.  Body  o'  me,  what  a  many-headed  monster 
have  I  propagated! 

Val.  I  am  of  myself  a  plain,  easy,  simple  creature, 
and  to  be  kept  at  small  expense;  but  the  retinue  that 
you  gave  me  are  craving  and  invincible;  they  are  so 
many  devils  that  you  have  raised,  and  will  have 
employment.  348 

Sir  Samp.  Oons,  what  had  I  to  do  to  get  children!  — 
can't  a  private  man  be  born  without  all  these  followers? 
—  Why,  nothing  under  an  emperor  should  be  born  with 
appetites.  —  Why,  at  this  rate,  a  fellow  that  has  but  a 
groat  in  his  pocket,  may  have  a  stomach  capable  of  a 
ten-shilling  ordinary." 

Jer.  Nay,  that's  as  clear  as  the  sun;  I'll  make  oath  of 
it  before  any  justice  in  Middlesex. 

Sir  Samp.  Here's  a  cormorant  too.  —  'S'heart,  this 
fellow  was  not  born  with  you?  —  I  did  not  beget  him, 
did  I?  359 

Jer.  By  the  provision  that's  made  for  me,  you  might 
have  begot  me  too  —  nay,  and  to  tell  your  worship 
another  truth,  I  believe  you  did,  for  I  find  I  was  born 
with  those  same  whoreson  appetites  too  that  my  master 
speaks  of. 

Sir  Samp.  Why,  look  you  there  now  —  I'll  maintain 
it,  that  by  the  rule  of  right  reason,  this  fellow  ought  to 
have  been  born  without  a  palate.  —  'S'heart,  what 
should  he  do  with  a  distinguishing  taste?  —  I  warrant 
now  he'd  rather  eat  a  pheasant  than  a  piece  of  poor 
John:"  and  smell  now  —  why,  I  warrant  he  can  smell, 
and  loves  perfumes  above  a  stink.  —  Why,  there's  it; 
and  music  —  don't  you  love  music,  scoundrel?  372 

Jer.  Yes,  I  have  a  reasonable  good  ear,  sir,  as  to  jigs 
and  country  dances,  and  the  like;  I  don't  much  matter 
your  solos  or  sonatas;  they  give  me  the  spleen." 

Sir  Samp.   The  spleen,  ha!  ha!  ha!  a  pox  confound 


1 82  LOVE   FOR  LOVE  [act  n 

you !  —  solos  or  sonatas?      Oons,  whose  son  are  you? 
How  were  you  engendered,  muckworm? 

Jer.  I  am  by  my  father  the  son  of  a  chairman;  my 
mother  sold  oysters  in  winter  and  cucumbers  in  summer; 
and  I  came  upstairs  into  the  world;  for  I  was  born  in  a 
cellar.  '  382 

Fore.  By  your  looks,  you  should  go  upstairs  out  of 
the  world  "  too,  friend. 

Sir  Samp.  And  if  this  rogue  were  anatomized  now, 
and  dissected,  he  has  his  vessels  of  digestion  and  concoc- 
tion, and  so  forth,  large  enough  for  the  inside  of  a  car- 
dinal, this  son  of  a  cucumber!  —  These  things  are  unac- 
countable and  unreasonable.  —  Body  o'me,  why  was  not 
I  a  bear,  that  my  cubs  might  have  lived  upon  sucking 
their  paws?  Nature  has  been  provident  only  to  bears 
and  spiders;  the  one  has  its  nutriment  in  his  own  hands, 
and  t'other  spins  his  habitation  out  of  his  own  entrails. 

Vol.  Fortune  was  provident  enough  to  supply  all  the 
necessities  of  my  nature,  if  I  had  my  right  of  inheritance. 

Sir  Samp.  Again!  Oons,  han't  you  four  thou-  [396 
sand  pounds  —  if  I  had  it  again,  I  would  not  give  thee  a 
groat.  —  What,  wouldst  thou  have  me  turn  pelican,  and 
feed  thee  out  of  my  own  vitals?  —  'S'heart,  live  by  your 
wits  —  you  were  always  fond  of  the  wits:  now  let's  see 
if  you  have  wit  enough  to  keep  yourself.  —  Your  brother 
will  be  in  town  to-night  or  to-morrow  morning,  and  then 
look  you,  perform  covenants,"  and  so  your  friend  and 
servant.  —  Come,  Brother  Foresight. 

[Exeunt  Sir  Sampson  and  Foresight. 

Jer.   I  told  you  what  your  visit  would  come  to.       405 

Vol.  'Tis  as  much  as  I  expected.  —  I  did  not  come  to 
see  him:  I  came  to  Angelica;  but  since  she  was  gone 
abroad  it  was  easily  turned  another  way,  and  at  least 
looked  well  on  my  side.  —  What's  here?  Mrs.  Foresight 
and  Mrs.  Frail;  they  are  earnest.  —  I'll  avoid  'em. — 
Come  this  way,  and  go  and  inquire  when  Angelica  will 
return.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  183 

Scene  II 

A  Room  in  Foresight's  House 

Mrs.  Foresight  and  Mrs.  Frail 

Airs.  Frail.  What  have  you  to  do  to  watch  me !  'slif e, 
I'll  do  what  I  please. 

Mrs.  Fore.    You  will? 

Mrs.  Frail.  Yes,  marry  will  I.  —  A  great  piece  of  busi- 
ness to  go  to  Covent  Garden  Square  in  a  hackney-coach, 
and  take  a  turn  with  one's  friend! 

Mrs.  Fore.    Nay,  two  or  three  turns,  I'll  take  my  oath. 

Mrs.  Frail.  Well,  what  if  I  took  twenty?  —  I  warrant 
if  you  had  been  there,  it  had  been  only  innocent  recrea- 
tion. —  Lord,  where's  the  comfort  of  this  life,  if  we  can't 
have  the  happiness  of  conversing  where  we  like?  n 

Mrs.  Fore.  But  can't  you  converse  at  home?  —  I  own 
it,  I  think  there  is  no  happiness  like  conversing  with  an 
agreeable  man;  I  don't  quarrel  at  that,  nor  I  don't  think 
but  your  conversation  was  very  innocent;  but  the  place 
is  public,  and  to  be  seen  with  a  man  in  a  hackney-coach 
is  scandalous:  what  if  anybody  else  should  have  seen 
you  alight,  as  I  did?  — •  How  can  anybody  be  happy, 
while  they're  in  perpetual  fear  of  being  seen  and  cen- 
sured? —  Besides,  it  would  not  only  reflect  upon  you, 
sister,  but  me.  21 

Mrs.  Frail.  Pooh,  here's  a  clutter!  —  Why  should  it 
reflect  upon  you?  —  I  don't  doubt  but  you  have  thought 
yourself  happy  in  a  hackney-coach  before  now.  —  If  I 
had  gone  to  Knightsbridge,  or  to  Chelsea,  or  to  Spring 
Gardens,  or  Barn  Elms,"  with  a  man  alone  —  something 
might  have  been  said. 

Mrs.  Fore.  Why,  was  I  ever  in  any  of  those  places  ? 
what  do  you  mean,  sister? 

Mrs.  Frail.    Was  I?  what  do  you  mean?  30 


1 84  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  ii 

Mrs.  Fore.   You  have  been  at  a  worse  place. 

Mrs.  Frail.   I  at  a  worse  place,  and  with  a  man! 

Mrs.  Fore.  I  suppose  you  would  not  go  alone  to  the 
World's  End. 

Mrs.  Frail.  The  world's  end!  what,  do  you  mean  to 
banter  me? 

Mrs.  Fore.  Poor  innocent!  you  don't  know  that  there's 
a  place  called  the  World's  End?  "  I'll  swear  you  can  keep 
your  countenance  purely,  you'd  make  an  admirable  player. 

Mrs.  Frail.  I'll  swear  you  have  a  great  deal  of  confi- 
dence, and  in  my  mind  too  much  for  the  stage.  41 

Mrs.  Fore.  Very  well,  that  will  appear  who  has  most; 
you  never  were  at  the  World's  End? 

Mrs.  Frail.    No. 

Mrs.  Fore.   You  deny  it  positively  to  my  face? 

Mrs.  Frail.   Your  face!  what's  your  face? 

Mrs.  Fore.  No  matter  for  that,  it's  as  good  a  face  as 
yours. 

Mrs.  Frail.  Not  by  a  dozen  years'  wearing.  —  But  I 
do  deny  it  positively  to  your  face  then.  so 

Mrs.  Fore.  I'll  allow  you  now  to  find  fault  with  my 
face  —  for  I'll  swear  your  impudence  has  put  me  out  of 
countenance:  but  look  you  here  now  —  where  did  you 
lose  this  gold  bodkin?  —  O  sister,  sister! 

Mrs.  Frail.    My  bodkin? 

Mrs.  Fore.    Nay,  'tis  yours,  look  at  it. 

Mrs.  Frail.  Well,  if  you  go  to  that,  where  did  you  find 
this  bodkin?  —  O  sister,  sister!  —  sister  every  way. 

Mrs.  Fore.  [Aside.]  Oh,  devil  on't,  that  I  could  not 
discover  her  without  betraying  myself!  60 

Mrs.  Frail.  I  have  heard  gentlemen  say,  sister,  that 
one  should  take  great  care,  when  one  makes  a  thrust  in 
fencing,  not  to  lie  open  one's  self. 

Mrs.  Fore.  It's  very  true,  sister;  well,  since  all's  out, 
and  as  you  say,  since  we  are  both  wounded,  let  us  do 
what  is  often  done  in  duels,  take  care  of  one  another, 
and  grow  better  friends  than  before. 


SCENE  II]  LOVE    FOR    LOVE  1 85 

Mrs.  Frail.  With  all  my  heart:  ours  are  but  slight 
flesh  wounds,  and  if  we  keep  'em  from  air,  not  at  all  dan- 
gerous: well,  give  me  your  hand  in  token  of  sisterly 
secrecy  and  affection.  71 

Mrs.  Fore.   Here  'tis,  with  all  my  heart. 

Mrs.  Frail.  Well,  as  an  earnest  of  friendship  and  con- 
fidence, I'll  acquaint  you  with  a  design  that  I  have.  To 
tell  truth,  and  speak  openly  one  to  another,  I'm  afraid 
the  world  have  observed  us  more  than  we  have  observed 
one  another.  You  have  a  rich  husband,  and  are  provided 
for;  I  am  at  a  loss,  and  have  no  great  stock  either  of 
fortune  or  reputation;  and  therefore  must  look  sharply 
about  me.  Sir  Sampson  has  a  son  that  is  expected  to- 
night ;  and  by  the  account  I  have  heard  of  his  education, 
can  be  no  conjurer;  the  estate  you  know  is  to  be  made 
over  to  him:  now  if  I  could  wheedle  him,  sister,  ha? 
you  understand  me!  84 

Mrs.  Fore.  I  do;  and  will  help  you  to  the  utmost  of 
my  power.  —  And  I  can  tell  you  one  thing  that  falls  out 
luckily  enough;  my  awkward  daughter-in-law,  who  you 
know  is  designed  to  be  his  wife,  is  grown  fond  of  Mr. 
Tattle;  now  if  we  can  improve  that,  and  make  her  have 
an  aversion  for  the  booby,  it  may  go  a  great  way  towards 
his  liking  you.  Here  they  come  together;  and  let  us 
contrive  some  way  or  other  to  leave  'em  together.      92 

Enter  Tattle  and  Miss  Prue 

Prue.   Mother,  mother,  mother,  look  you  here! 

Mrs.  Fore.  Fie,  fie,  miss!  how  you  bawl.  —  Besides,  I 
have  told  you,  you  must  not  call  me  mother. 

Prue.  What  must  I  call  you  then?  Are  you  not  my 
father's  wife? 

Mrs.  Fore.  Madam;  you  must  say  madam.  —  By  my 
soul,  I  shall  fancy  myself  old  indeed,  to  have  this  great 
girl  call  me  mother!  —  Well,  but,  miss,  what  are  you  so 
overjoyed  at?  loi 


1 86  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  ii 

Prue.  Look  you  here,  madam,  then,  what  Mr.  Tattle 
has  given  me.  —  Look  you  here,  cousin,  here's  a  snuff- 
box ;   nay,  there's  snuff  in't  —  here,  will  you  have  any? 

—  Oh,  good!  how  sweet  it  is.  —  Mr.  Tattle  is  all  over 
sweet,  his  peruke  is  sweet,  and  his  gloves  are  sweet,  and 
his  handkerchief  is  sweet,  pure  sweet,  sweeter  than  roses. 

—  Smell  him,  mother  —  madam,  I  mean.  He  gave  me 
this  ring  for  a  kiss. 

Tat.    Oh,  fie,  miss!  you  must  not  kiss  and  tell.        no 

Prue.  Yqs;  I  may  tell  my  mother.  —  And  he  says  he'll 
give  me  something  to  make  me  smell  so  —  [To  Tattle.] 
Oh,  pray  lend  me  your  handkerchief.  —  Smell,  cousin; 
he  says  he'll  give  me  something  that  will  make  my  smocks 
smell  this  way.  —  Is  not  it  pure?"  —  It's  better  than 
lavender,  niun"  —  I'm  resolved  I  won't  let  nurse  put  any 
more  lavender  among  my  smocks  —  ha,  cousin? 

Mrs.  Frail.  Fie,  miss!  amongst  your  linen,  you  must 
say  —  you  must  never  say  smock. 

Prue.    Why,  it  is  not  bawdy,  is  it,  cousin?  120 

Tat.  Oh,  madam,  you  are  too  severe  upon  miss;  you 
must  not  find  fault  with  her  pretty  simplicity,  it  becomes 
her  strangely.  —  Pretty  miss,  don't  let  'em  persuade  you 
out  of  your  innocency. 

Mrs.  Fore.  Oh,  demn  you,  toad!  —  I  wish  you  don't 
persuade  her  out  of  her  innocency. 

Tat.  Who?  I,  madam?  —  O  Lord,  how  can  your 
ladyship  have  such  a  thought  —  sure,  you  don't  know 
me? 

Mrs.  Frail.  Ah,  devil !  sly  devil !  —  He's  as  close,  sister, 
as  a  confessor.  ^  He  thinks  we  don't  observe  him.    131 

Mrs.  Fore.  A  cunning  cur!  how  soon  he  could  find 
out  a  fresh  harmless  creature !  and  left  us,  sister,  presently. 

Tat.    Upon  reputation  — 

Mrs.  Fore.  They're  all  so,  sister,  these  men:  they  love 
to  have  the  spoiling  of  a  young  thing ;  they  are  as  fond  of 
it  as  of  being  first  in  the  fashion,  or  of  seeing  a  new  play 
the  first  day.  —  I  warrant  it  would  break  Mr.  Tattle's 


SCENE    II] 


LOVE   FOR   LOVE  187 


heart,  to  think  that  anybody  else  should  be  beforehand 

with  him.  ^40 

Tat.   O  Lord,  I  swear  I  would  not  for  the  world  — 

Mrs.   Frail.   Oh,  hang  you!  who'll  believe  you? — 

You'd  be  hanged  before  you'd  confess  —  we  know  you 

—  she's  very  pretty!  — Lord,  what  pure  red  and  white! 

—  she  looks  so  wholesome  —  ne'er  stir,  I  don't  know, 
but  I  fancy,  if  I  were  a  man  — 

Prue.    How  you  love  to  jeer  one,  cousin! 

Mrs.  Fore.  Hark  ye,  sister.  —  By  my  soul  the  girl  is 
spoiled  already  —  d'ye  think  she'll  ever  endure  a  great 
lubberly  tarpaulin!  —  gad,  I  warrant  you,  she  won't  let 
him  come  near  her,  after  Mr.  Tattle.  isi 

Mrs.  Frail  0'  my  soul,  I'm  afraid  not  —  eh!  —  filthy 
creature,  that  smells  all  of  pitch  and  tar.  —  [To  Tattle.] 
Devil  take  you,  you  confounded  toad!  —  why  did  you  see 
her  before  she  was  married? 

Mrs.  Fore.  Nay,  why  did  we  let  him?  —  My  hus- 
band will  hang  us;  he'll  think  we  brought  'em  ac- 
quainted. 

Mrs.  Frail.  Come,  faith,  let  us  be  gone.  —  If  my 
brother  Foresight  should  find  us  with  them,  he'd  think 
so,  sure  enough.  161 

Mrs.  Fore.  So  he  would  —  but  then  leaving  'em  to- 
gether is  as  bad.  —  And  he's  such  a  sly  devil,  he'll  never 
miss  an  opportunity. 

Mrs.  Frail.    I  don't  care;   I  won't  be  seen  in't. 

Mrs.  Fore.  Well,  if  you  should,  Mr.  Tattle,  you'll 
have  a  world  to  answer  for;  remember  I  wash  my  hands 
of  it.  —  I'm  thoroughly  innocent. 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Foresight  and  Mrs.  Frail. 

Prue.  What  makes  'em  go  away,  Mr.  Tattle?  What  do 
they  mean,  do  you  know?  170 

Tat.  Yes,  my  dear  —  I  think  I  can  guess;  but  hang 
me  if  I  know  the  reason  of  it. 

Prue.    Come,  must  not  we  go  too? 

Tat.   No,  no,  they  don't  mean  that. 


1 88  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  n 

Prue.  No!  What  then?  What  shall  you  and  I  do 
together? 

Tat.  I  must  make  love  to  you,  pretty  miss;  will  you 
let  me  make  love  to  you? 

Prue.    Yes,  if  you  please.  179 

Tat.  [Aside.]  Frank,  egad,  at  least.  What  a  pox 
does  Mrs.  Foresight  mean  by  this  civility?  Is  it  to 
make  a  fool  of  me?  Or  does  she  leave  us  together  out 
of  good  morality,  and  do  as  she  would  be  done  by?  — 
Gad,  I'll  understand  it  so. 

Prue.  Well;  and  how  will  you  make  love  to  me? 
Come,  I  long  to  have  you  begin.  Must  I  make  love  too? 
You  must  tell  me  how. 

Tat.   You  must  let  me  speak,  miss,  you  must  not 

speak  first;    I  must  ask  you  questions,  and  you  must 

answer.  igo 

Prue.    What,  is  it  like  the  catechism?  —  Come,  then, 

ask  me. 

Tat.    D'ye  think  you  can  love  me? 
Prue.   Yes. 

Tat.    Pooh!  pox!     You  must  not  say  yes  already;    I 
shan't  care  a  farthing  for  you  then,  in  a  twinkling. 
Prue.    What  must  I  say,  then? 

Tat.  Why,  you  must  say  no,  or  you  believe  not,  or  you 
can't  tell. 

Prue.    Why,  must  I  tell  a  lie  then?  200 

Tat.  Yes,  if  you'd  be  well-bred  —  all  well-bred  persons 
lie.  Besides,  you  are  a  woman;  you  must  never  speak 
what  you  think:  your  words  must  contradict  your 
thoughts;  but  your  actions  may  contradict  your  words. 
So,  when  I  ask  you,  if  you  can  love  me,  you  must  say 
no,  but  you  must  love  me  too.  If  I  tell  you  you  are  hand- 
some, you  must  deny  it,  and  say  I  flatter  you.  But  you 
must  think  yourself  more  charming  than  I  speak  you: 
and  like  me,  for  the  beauty  which  I  say  you  have,  as 
much  as  if  I  had  it  myself.  If  I  ask  you  to  kiss  me,  you 
must  be  angry,  but  you  must  not  refuse  me.     If  I  ask 


SCENE  11]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  1 89 

you  for  more,  you  must  be  more  angry  —  but  more  com- 
plying; and  as  soon  as  ever  I  make  you  say  you'll  cry 
out,  you  must  be  sure  to  hold  your  tongue.  214 

Pnie.  0  Lord,  I  swear  this  is  pure!  —  I  like  it  better 
than  our  old-fashioned  country  way  of  speaking  one's 
mind  —  and  must  not  you  lie  too? 

Tat.  Hum!  —  yes;  but  you  must  believe  I  speak 
truth. 

Prue.  0  Gemini!  Well,  I  always  had  a  great  mind 
to  tell  lies:  but  they  frighted  me,  and  said  it  was  a  sin. 

Tat.  Well ,  my  pretty  creature ,  will  you  make  me  happy 
by  giving  me  a  kiss?  223 

Prue.    No,  indeed;   I'm  angry  at  you. 

[Runs  and  kisses  him. 

Tat.  Hold,  hold,  that's  pretty  well  —  but  you  should 
not  have  given  it  me,  but  have  suffered  me  to  have 
taken  it. 

Prue.   Well,  we'll  do't  again. 

Tat.   With  all  my  heart.  —  Now  then,  my  little  angel! 

[Kisses  her. 

Prue.    Pish!  230 

Tat.   That's  right  —  again,  my  charmer! 

[Kisses  her  again. 

Prue.    0  fie!     Nay,  now  I  can't  abide  you. 

Tat.  Admirable!  That  was  as  well  as  if  you  had  been 
born  and  bred  in  Covent  Garden."  And  won't  you  show 
me,  pretty  miss,  where  your  bedchamber  is? 

Prue.  No,  indeed,  won't  I;  but  I'll  run  there  and  hide 
myself  from  you  behind  the  curtains. 

Tat.    I'll  follow  you. 

Prue.  Ah,  but  I'll  hold  the  door  with  both  hands,  and 
be  angry  —  and  you  shall  push  me  down  before  you 
come  in.  241 

Tat.  No,  I'll  come  in  first,  and  push  you  down  after- 
wards. 

Prue.  Will  you?  Then  I'll  be  more  angry,  and  more 
complying. 


igo                            LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  ii 

Tat.   Then  I'll  make  you  cry  out. 
Prue.   Oh,  but  you  shan't;   for  I'll  hold  my  tongue. 
Tat.    Oh,  my  dear  apt  scholar! 

Prue.    Well,  now  I'll  run,  and  make  more  haste  than 

you.  250 

Tat.    You  shall  not  fly  so  fast  as  r II  pursue.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  THE  THIRD 

Scene  I 

The  Gallery  adjoining  Prue's  Bedchamber 

Enter  Nurse,  alone 

Nurse.  Miss!  miss!  Miss  True!  —  Mercy  on  me, 
marry  and  amen!  —  Why,  what's  become  of  the  child? 
Why,  miss?  Miss  Foresight! — Sure,  she  has  locked 
herself  up  in  her  chamber,  and  gone  to  sleep,  or  to  prayers 
—  Miss!  miss!  I  hear  her;  come  to  your  father,  child; 
open  the  door  —  open  the  door,  miss !  —  I  hear  you  cry 
"Hush!"  — O  Lord,  who's  there?  —  [Pee^5  through  the 
keyhole.]  —  What's  here  to  do?  —  O  the  father!  a  man 
with  her!  —  Why,  miss,  I  say!  God's  my  life,  here's 
fine  doings  towards!" — 0  Lord,  we're  all  undone! —  [lo 
Oh,  you  young  harlotry!"  —  [Knocks.]  Od's  my  life! 
won't  you  open  the  door?  —  I'll  come  in  the  back  way. 

[Exit. 

Scene  II 

Prue's  Bedchamber 

Tattle  and  Miss  Prue 

Prue.  O  Lord,  she's  coming!  —  and  she'll  tell  my 
father;    what  shall  I  do  now! 

Tat.  Pox  take  her!  — if  she  had  stayed  two  minutes 
longer,  I  should  have  wished  for  her  coming. 

Prue.  Oh,  dear,  what  shall  I  say?  Tell  me.  Mr. 
Tattle,  tell  me  a  lie. 

191 


192  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  hi 

Tat.  There's  no  occasion  for  a  lie;  I  could  never  tell 
a  lie  to  no  purpose;  but  since  we  have  done  nothing, 
we  must  say  nothing,  I  think.  I  hear  her;  I'll  leave  you 
together,  and  come  off  as  you  can.  lo 

{Thrusts  her  back,  and  shuts  the  door. 


Scene  III 
A  Room  in  Foresight's  House 
Tattle,  Valentine,  Scandal,  and  Angelica 

Ang.  You  can't  accuse  me  of  inconstancy;  I  never  told 
you  that  I  loved  you. 

Val.  But  I  can  accuse  you  of  uncertainty,  for  not 
telling  me  whether  you  did  or  not. 

Ang.  You  mistake  indifference  for  uncertainty;  I 
never  had  concern  enough  to  ask  myself  the  question. 

Scan.  Nor  good  nature  enough  to  answer  him  that  did 
ask  you;   I'll  say  that  for  you,  madam. 

Ang.    What,  are  you  setting  up  for  good  nature? 

Scan.  Only  for  the  affectation  of  it,  as  the  women  do 
for  ill  nature.  n 

Ang.    Persuade  your  friend  that  it  is  all  affectation. 

Scan.  I  shall  receive  no  benefit  from  the  opinion;  for 
I  know  no  effectual  difference  between  continued  affecta- 
tion and  reality. 

Tat.  [Coming  up.  Aside  to  Scandal.]  Scandal,  are 
you  in  private  discourse?    anything  of  secrecy? 

Scan.  Yes,  but  I  dare  trust  you!  We  were  talking  of 
Angelica's  love  for  Valentine;   you  won't  speak  of  it? 

Tat.  No,  no,  not  a  syllable;  I  know  that's  a  secret, 
for  it's  whispered  everywhere.  21 

Scan.    Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Ang.  What  is,  Mr.  Tattle?  I  heard  you  say  some- 
thing was  whispered  everywhere. 


SCENE  III]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  193 

Scan.   Your  love  of  Valentine. 

Ang.   How! 

Tat.  No,  madam,  his  love  for  your  ladyship.  —  Gad 
take  me,  I  beg  your  pardon  —  for  I  never  heard  a  word 
of  your  ladyship's  passion  till  this  instant. 

Ang.  My  passion!  And  who  told  you  of  my  passion, 
pray,  sir?  31 

Scan.  [Aside  to  Tattle.]  Why,  is  the  devil  in  you? 
Did  not  I  tell  it  you  for  a  secret? 

Tat.  [Aside  to  Scandal.]  Gad  so,  but  I  thought  she 
might  have  been  trusted  with  her  own  affairs. 

Scan.  Is  that  your  discretion?  Trust  a  woman  with 
herself? 

Tat.  You  say  true,  I  beg  your  pardon  —  I'll  bring  all 
off.  —  [Aloud.]  It  was  impossible,  madam,  for  me  to 
imagine  that  a  person  of  your  ladyship's  wit  and  gal- 
lantry could  have  so  long  received  the  passionate  ad- 
dresses of  the  accomplished  Valentine,  and  yet  remain 
insensible;  therefore  you  will  pardon  me,  if,  from  a  just 
weight  of  his  merit,  with  your  ladyship's  good  judgement, 
I  formed  the  balance  of  a  reciprocal  affection. 

Val.  0  the  devil!  What  damned  costive  poet  has 
given  thee  this  lesson  of  fustian  to  get  by  rote? 

Ang.  I  dare  swear  you  wrong  him,  it  is  his  own;  and 
Mr.  Tattle  only  judges  of  the  success  of  others  from  the 
effects  of  his  own  merit.  For  certainly  Mr.  Tattle  was 
never  denied  anything  in  his  life.  51 

Tat.   O  Lord!     Yes,  indeed,  madam,  several  times. 

Ang.    I  swear  I  don't  think  'tis  possible. 

Tat.  Yes,  I  vow  and  swear  I  have.  Lord,  madam, 
I'm  the  most  unfortunate  man  in  the  world,  and  the 
most  cruelly  used  by  the  ladies. 

Ang.    Nay,  now  you  are  ungrateful. 

Tat.  No,  I  hope  not:  'tis  as  much  ingratitude  to  own 
some  favours  as  to  conceal  others. 

Val.   There,  now  it's  out.  60 

Ang.   I  don't  understand  you  now:  I  thought  you  had 

CONGREVE  —  IX 


194  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  hi 

never  asked  anything  but  what  a  lady  might  modestly 
grant,  and  you  confess. 

Scan.  So,  faith,  your  business  is  done  here;  now  you 
may  go  brag  somewhere  else. 

Tat.  Brag!  0  Heavens!  Why,  did  I  name  any- 
body? 

Ang.  No,  I  suppose  that  is  not  in  your  power:  but 
you  would  if  you  could,  no  doubt  on't. 

Tat.  Not  in  my  power,  madam!  what,  does  your  lady- 
ship mean  that  I  have  no  woman's  reputation  in  my 
power?  72 

Scan.  [Aside  to  Tattle.]  Oons,  why,  you  won't  own 
it,  will  you? 

Tat.  Faith,  madam,  you're  in  the  right:  no  more  I 
have,  as  I  hope  to  be  saved;  I  never  had  it  in  my  power 
to  say  anything  to  a  lady's  prejudice  in  my  life.  For,  as 
I  was  telling  you,  madam,  I  have  been  the  most  unsuc- 
cessful creature  living,  in  things  of  that  nature ;  and  never 
had  the  good  fortune  to  be  trusted  once  with  a  lady's 
secret,  not  once.  81 

A  ng.   No ! 

Vol.   Not  once,  I  dare  answer  for  him. 

Scan.  And  I'll  answer  for  him;  for  I'm  sure  if  he  had, 
he  would  have  told  me.  —  I  find,  madam,  you  don't 
know  Mr.  Tattle. 

Tat.  No,  indeed,  madam,  you  don't  know  me  at  all, 
I  find.  For  sure  my  intimate  friends  would  have 
known  — 

Ang.  Then  it  seems  you  would  have  told,  if  you  had 
been  trusted.  91 

Tat.  0  pox.  Scandal!  that  was  too  far  put." —  Never 
have  told  particulars,  madam.  Perhaps  I  might  have 
talked  as  of  a  third  person,  or  have  introduced  an  amour 
of  my  own,  in  conversation,  by  way  of  novel ;  but  never 
have  explained  particulars. 

Ang.  But  whence  comes  the  reputation  of  Mr.  Tattle's 
secrecy,  if  he  was  never  trusted? 


SCENE  III]  LOVE    FOR   LOVE  I95 

Scan.  Why,  thence  it  arises:  the  thing  is  proverbially 
spoken,  but  may  be  applied  to  him.  —  As  if  we  should 
say  in  general  terms,  "He  only  is  secret  who  never  was 
trusted";  a  satirical  proverb  upon  our  sex.  —  There's 
another  upon  yours,  as  "She  is  chaste  who  was  never 
asked  the  question."     That's  all.  104 

Val.  A  couple  of  very  civil  proverbs,  truly:  'tis  hard 
to  tell  whether  the  lady  or  Mr.  Tattle  be  the  more 
obliged  to  you.  For  you  found  her  virtue  upon  the 
backwardness  of  the  men,  and  his  secrecy  upon  the  mis- 
trust of  the  women. 

Tat.  Gad,  it's  very  true,  madam,  I  think  we  are 
obliged  to  acquit  ourselves;  and  for  my  part  —  but  your 
ladyship  is  to  speak  first.  112 

Ang.  Am  I?  well,  I  freely  confess  I  have  resisted  a 
great  deal  of  temptation. 

Tat.  And,  egad,  I  have  given  some  temptation  that 
has  not  been  resisted. 

Val.    Good ! 

Ang.  I  cite  Valentine  here,  to  declare  to  the  court  how 
fruitless  he  has  found  his  endeavours,  and  to  confess  all 
his  solicitations  and  my  denials.  120 

Val.  I  am  ready  to  plead  not  guilty  for  you,  and  guilty 
for  myself. 

Scan.  So,  why  this  is  fair,  here's  demonstration  with 
a  witness! 

Tat.  Well,  my  witnesses  are  not  present.  But  I  con- 
fess I  have  had  favours  from  persons  —  but  as  the 
favours  are  numberless,  so  the  persons  are  nameless. 

Scan.   Pooh,  this  proves  nothing.  128 

Tat.  No?  I  can  show  letters,  lockets,  pictures,  and 
rings;  and  if  there  be  occasion  for  witnesses,  I  can  sum- 
mon the  maids  at  the  chocolate-houses,  all  the  porters  at 
Pall  Mall  and  Covent  Garden,  the  door-keepers  at  the 
playhouse,  the  drawers  at  Locket's,  Pontac's,  the  PvUm- 
mer,"  Spring  Garden;  my  own  landlady,  and  valet  de 
chambre;  all  who  shall  make  oath,  that  I  receive  more 


196  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  hi 

letters  than  the  Secretary's  Office;  and  that  I  have  more 
vizor-masks  to  inquire  for  me  than  ever  went  to  see  the 
Hermaphrodite,  or  the  Naked  Prince."  And  it  is  notori- 
ous, that  in  a  country  church,  once,  an  inquiry  being 
made  who  I  was,  it  was  answered,  I  was  the  famous 
Tattle,  who  had  ruined  so  many  women.  141 

Val.  It  was  there,  I  suppose,  you  got  the  nickname  of 
the  Great  Turk. 

Tat.  True,  I  was  called  Turk-Tattle  all  over  the 
parish.  —  The  next  Sunday  all  the  old  women  kept  their 
daughters  at  home,  and  the  parson  had  not  half  his  con- 
gregation. He  would  have  brought  me  into  the  spiritual 
court,  but  I  was  revenged  upon  him,  for  he  had  a  hand- 
some daughter,  whom  I  initiated  into  the  science."  But 
I  repented  it  afterwards,  for  it  was  talked  of  in  [150 
town;  and  a  lady  of  quality,  that  shall  be  nameless,  in  a 
raging  fit  of  jealousy,  came  down  in  her  coach  and  six 
horses,  and  exposed  herself  upon  my  account;  gad,  I  was 
sorry  for  it  with  all  my  heart.  —  You  know  whom  I 
mean  —  you  know  where  we  raffled  — 

Scan.    Mum,  Tattle. 

Val.    'Sdeath,  are  not  you  ashamed? 

A  ng.  Oh,  barbarous !  I  never  heard  so  insolent  a  piece 
of  vanity.  —  Fie,  Mr.  Tattle!  —  I'll  swear  I  could  not 
have  believed  it.  —  Is  this  your  secrecy?  160 

Tat.  Gad  so,  the  heat  of  my  story  carried  me  be- 
yond my  discretion,  as  the  heat  of  the  lady's  pas- 
sion hurried  her  beyond  her  reputation.  —  But  I  hope 
you  don't  know  whom  I  mean;  for  there  were  a  great 
many  ladies  raffled."  —  Pox  on't!  now  could  I  bite  off 
my  tongue. 

Scan.  No,  don't;  for  then  you'll  tell  us  no  more.  — 
Come,  I'll  recommend  a  song  to  you  upon  the  hint  of 
my  two  proverbs,  and  I  see  one  in  the  next  room  that 
will  sing  it.  [Exit. 

Tat.  For  Heaven's  sake,  if  you  do  guess,  say  nothing; 
gad,  I'm  very  unfortunate,  173 


SCENE  III]    •  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  197 

Re-enter  Scandal  with  one  to  sing 

Scan.    Pray  sing  the  first  song  in  the  last  new  play. 

Song 

"  A  nymph  and  a  swain  to  Apollo  once  prayed, 
The  swain  had  been  jilted,  the  nymph  been  betrayed: 
Their  intent  was  to  try  if  his  oracle  knew 
E'er  a  nymph  that  was  chaste,  or  a  swain  that  was  true. 

"  Apollo  was  mute,  and  had  like  Vhave  been  posed, 
But  sagely  at  length  he  this  secret  disclosed: 
'  He  alone  wonH  betray  in  whom  none  will  confide :     180 
And  the  nymph  may  be  chaste  that  has  never  been  tried.''  " 

[Exit  Singer. 

Enter  Sir  Sampson,  Mrs.  Frail,  Miss  Prue,  and 

Servant 

Sir  Samp.  Is  Ben  come?  odso,  my  son  Ben  come?  odd, 
I'm  glad  on't;  where  is  he?  I  long  to  see  him.  — Now, 
Mrs.  Frail,  you  shall  see  my  son  Ben. — Body  o'  me, 
he's  the  hopes  of  my  family.  —  I  han't  seen  him  these 
three  years.  —  I  warrant  he's  grown.  —  Call  him  in,  bid 
him  make  haste.  —  [Exit  Servant.]  I'm  ready  to  cry 
for  joy. 

Mrs.  Frail.    Now,  Miss,  you  shall  see  your  husband. 

Prue.  [/45/(/g/o  Mrs.  Frail.]  Pish,  he  shall  be  none  of 
my  husband.  igi 

Mrs.  Frail.  [Aside  to  Prue.]  Hush:  well  he  shan't, 
leave  that  to  me.  —  I'll  beckon  Mr.  Tattle  to  us. 

Ang.    Won't  you  stay  and  see  your  brother? 

Val.  We  are  the  twin-stars,  and  cannot  shine  in  one 
sphere;  when  he  rises  I  must  set.  —  Besides,  if  I  should 
stay,  I  don't  know  but  my  father  in  good  nature  may 


198  LOVE    FOR   LOVE  •       [act  m 

press  me  to  the  immediate  signing  the  deed  of  conveyance 
of  my  estate;  and  I'll  defer  it  as  long  as  I  can.  —  Well, 
you'll  come  to  a  resolution?  "  200 

Aitg.  I  can't.  Resolution  must  come  to  me,  or  I 
shall  never  have  one. 

Scan.  Come,  Valentine,  I'll  go  with  you;  I've  some- 
thing in  my  head  to  communicate  to  you. 

[Exeunt  Valentine  and  Scandal. 

Sir  Samp.  What,  is  my  son  Valentine  gone?  what,  is 
he  sneaked  off,  and  would  not  see  his  brother?  There's 
an  unnatural  whelp!  there's  an  ill-natured  dog!  —  What, 
were  you  here  too,  madam,  and  could  not  keep  him? 
could  neither  love,  nor  duty,  nor  natural  affection,  oblige 
him?  Odsbud,  madam,  have  no  more  to  say  to  him;  [210 
he  is  not  worth  your  consideration.  The  rogue  has  not 
a  drachm  of  generous  love  about  him:  all  interest,  all 
interest;  he's  an  undone  scoundrel,  and  courts  your 
estate:  body  o'  me,  he  does  not  care  a  doit  for  your 
person. 

Ang.  I'm  pretty  even  with  him.  Sir  Sampson;  for  if 
ever  I  could  have  liked  anything  in  him,  it  should  have 
been  his  estate,  too:  but  since  that's  gone,  that  bait's 
off,  and  the  naked  hook  appears.  2ig 

Sir  Samp.  Odsbud,  well  spoken;  and  you  are  a  wiser 
woman  than  I  thought  you  were;  for  most  young  women 
now-a-days  are  to  be  tempted  with  a  naked  hook. 

Ang.  If  I  marry,  Sir  Sampson,  I'm  for  a  good  estate 
with  any  man,  and  for  any  man  with  a  good  estate: 
therefore  if  I  were  obliged  to  make  a  choice,  I  declare  I'd 
rather  have  you  than  your  son. 

Sir  Samp.  Faith  and  troth,  you're  a  wise  woman,  and 
I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  so;  I  was  afraid  you  were  in 
love  with  the  reprobate;  odd,  I  was  sorry  for  you  with  all 
my  heart:  hang  him,  mongrel;  cast  him  off;  you  [230 
shall  see  the  rogue  show  himself,  and  make  love  to  some 
desponding  Cadua  of  four-score  for  sustenance.  Odd,  I 
love  to  see  a  young  spendthrift  forced  to  cling  to  an  old 


SCENE  III]  LOVE  FOR   LOVE  199 

woman  for  support,  like  ivy  round  a  dead  oak:  faith  T 
do;  I  love  to  see  'em  hug  and  cotton  together,  like  down 
upon  a  thistle. 

Enter  Ben  and  Servant 

Ben.    Where's  father? 

Ser.   There,  sir,  his  back's  toward  you. 

Sir  Samp.  My  son  Ben!  Bless  thee,  my  dear  boy; 
body  o'  me,  thou  art  heartily  welcome.  240 

Ben.   Thank  you,  father,  and  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 

Sir  Samp.  Odsbud,  and  I  am  glad  to  see  thee;  kiss 
me,  boy,  kiss  me  again  and  again,  dear  Ben. 

[Kisses  him. 

Ben.  So,  so,  enough,  father.  —  Mess,"  I'd  rather  kiss 
these  gentlewomen." 

Sir  Samp.  And  so  thou  shalt.  —  Mrs.  Angelica,"  my 
son  Ben. 

Ben.  Forsooth,  if  you  please.  —  [Salutes  her.]  Nay, 
mistress,  I'm  not  for  dropping  anchor  here;  about  ship 
i'faith.  —  [Kisses  Mrs.  Frail.]  Nay,  and  you,  too,  my 
little  cock-boat  —  so.  [Kisses  Miss  True. 

Tat.    Sir,  you're  welcome  ashore.  252 

Ben.   Thank  you,  thank  you,  friend. 

^^V  Samp.  Thou  hast  been  many  a  weary  league,  Ben, 
since  I  saw  thee. 

Ben.  Ey,  ey,  been !  been  far  enough,  an  that  be  all.  — 
Well,  father,  and  how  do  all  at  home?  How  does  brother 
Dick,  and  brother  Val? 

Sir  Samp.  Dick!  body  o'  me,  Dick  has  been  dead 
these  two  years!  I  writ  you  word  when  you  were  at 
Leghorn.  261 

Ben.  Mess,  that's  true;  marry,  I  had  forgot.  Dick's 
dead,  as  you  say.  —  Well,  and  how?  I  have  many  ques- 
tions to  ask  you.  Well,  you  ben't  married  again,  father, 
be  you? 

Sir  Samp.  No,  I  intend  you  shall  marry,  Ben;  I 
would  not  marry  for  thy  sake. 


200  LOVE    FOR    LOVE  [act  hi 

Ben.  Nay,  what  does  that  signify?  —  An  you  marry 
again  —  why,  then,  I'll  go  to  sea  again,  so  there's  one  for 
t'other,  an  that  be  all.  —  Pray  don't  let  me  be  your 
hindrance;  e'en  m^arry  a'  God's  name,  an  the  wind  sit 
that  way.  As  for  my  part,  mayhap  I  have  no  mind  to 
marry.  273 

Mrs.  Frail.  That  would  be  a  pity,  such  a  handsome 
young  gentleman. 

Ben.  Handsome!  he!  he!  he!  nay,  forsooth,  an  you  be 
for  joking,  I'll  joke  with  you;  for  I  love  my  jest  an  the 
ship  were  sinking,  as  we  say'n  at  sea.  But  I'll  tell  you 
why  I  don't  much  stand  toward  matrimony.  I  love  to 
roam  about  from  port  to  port,  and  from  land  to  land: 
I  could  never  abide  to  be  port-bound,  as  we  call  it;  now, 
a  man  that  is  married  has,  as  it  were,  d'ye  see,  his  feet  in 
the  bilboes,  and  mayhap  mayn't  get  'em  out  again  when 
he  would.  284 

Sir  Samp.    Ben's  a  wag. 

Ben.  A  man  that  is  married,  d'ye  see,  is  no  more  like 
another  man  than  a  galley-slave  is  like  one  of  us  free 
sailors;  he  is  chained  to  an  oar  all  his  life;  and  mayhap 
forced  to  tug  a  leaky  vessel  into  the  bargain. 

Sir  Samp.  A  very  wag!  Ben's  a  very  wag!  only  a 
little  rough,  he  wants  a  little  polishing.  291 

Mrs.  Frail.  Not  at  all ;  I  like  his  humour  mightily,  it's 
plain  and  honest;  I  should  like  such  a  humour  in  a  hus- 
band extremely. 

Ben.  Say'n  you  so,  forsooth?  Marry,  and  I  should 
like  such  a  handsome  gentlewoman  for  a  bedfellow 
hugely;  how  say  you,  mistress,  would  you  like  going  to 
sea?  Mess,  you're  a  tight  vessel!  and  well  rigged,  an 
you  were  but  as  well  manned. 

Mrs.  Frail.  I  should  not  doubt  that,  if  you  were  mas- 
ter of  me.  301 

Ben.  But  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  an  you  come  to  sea  in 
a  high  wind,  or  that"  lady  —  you  mayn't  carry  so  much 
sail  o'  your  head.  —  Top  and  topgallant,  by  the  mess. 


SCENE  III]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  201 

Mrs.  Frail.    No,  why  so? 

Ben.  Why,  an  you  do,  you  may  run  the  risk  to  be 
overset,  and  then  you'll  carry  your  keels  above  water,  he! 
he!  he! 

Ang.  I  swear,  Mr.  Benjamin  is  the  veriest  wag  in 
nature;   an  absolute  sea- wit.  310 

Sir  Samp.  Nay,  Ben  has  parts,  but,  as  I  told  you 
before,  they  want  a  little  polishing:  you  must  not  take 
anything  ill,  madam. 

Ben.  No,  I  hope  the  gentlewoman  is  not  angry;  I 
mean  all  in  good  part;  for  if  I  give  a  jest  I'll  take  a  jest: 
and  so,  forsooth,  you  may  be  as  free  with  me. 

.1;/^.  I  thank  you,  sir,  I  am  not  at  all  olifended.  — 
But  methinks,  Sir  Sampson,  you  should  leave  him  alone 
with  his  mistress.  —  Mr.  Tattle,  we  must  not  hinder 
lovers.  320 

Tat.  [Aside  to  Miss  Prue.]  Well,  miss,  I  have  your 
promise. 

Sir  Samp.  Body  o'  me,  madam,  you  say  true.  —  Look 
you,  Ben,  this  is  your  mistress.  —  Come,  miss,  you  must 
not  be  shamefaced;    we'll  leave  you  together. 

Prue.  I  can't  abide  to  be  left  alone,  mayn't  my  cousin 
stay  with  me? 

Sir  Samp.    No,  no.  —  Come,  let's  away. 

Ben.  Look  you,  father,  mayhap  the  young  woman 
mayn't  take  a  liking  to  me.  330 

Sir  Samp.  I  warrant  thee,  boy;  come,  come,  we'll 
be  gone;   I'll  venture  that. 

[Exeunt  Sir  Sampson,  Angelica,  Tattle,  and 
Mrs.   Frail. 

Ben.  Come,  mistress,  will  you  please  to  sit  down?  For 
an  you  stand  astern  a  that'n,"  we  shall  never  grapple 
together.  —  Come,  I'll  haul  a  chair;  there,  an  you  please 
to  sit  I'll  sit  by  you. 

Prue.  You  need  not  sit  so  near  one;  if  you  have  any- 
thing to  say  I  can  hear  you  farther  off,  I  an't  deaf. 

Ben.    Why,  that's  true,  as  you  say;   nor  I  an't  dumb; 


202  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  hi 

I  can  be  heard  as  far  as  another  —  I'll  leave  off  to  [340 
please  you.  —  [Siis  farther  ojf.]  An  we  were  a  league 
asunder,  I'd  undertake  to  hold  discourse  with  you,  an 
'twere  not  a  main  high  wind  indeed,  and  full  in  my  teeth. 
Look  you,  forsooth,  I  am,  as  it  were,  bound  for  the  land 
of  matrimony;  'tis  a  voyage,  d'ye  see,  that  was  none  of 
my  seeking.  I  was  commanded  by  father,  and  if  you 
like  of  it  mayhap  I  may  steer  into  your  harbour.  How 
say  you,  mistress?  The  short  of  the  thing  is,  that  if  you 
like  me,  and  I  like  you,  we  may  chance  to  swing  in  a 
hammock  together.  350 

Prue.  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you,  nor  I  don't 
care  to  speak  with  you  at  all. 

Ben.  No?  I'm  sorry  for  that.  —  But  pray,  why  are 
you  so  scornful? 

Prue.  As  long  as  one  must  not  speak  one's  mind,  one 
had  better  not  speak  at  all,  I  think,  and  truly  I  won't  tell 
a  lie  for  the  matter.  357 

Ben.  Nay,  you  say  true  in  that,  'tis  but  a  folly  to  lie: 
for  to  speak  one  thing,  and  to  think  just  the  contrary 
way,  is,  as  it  were,  to  look  one  way  and  row  another. 
Now,  for  my  part,  d'ye  see,  I'm  for  carrying  things  above 
board,  I'm  not  for  keeping  anything  under  hatches  —  so 
that  if  you  ben't  as  willing  as  I,  say  so  a'  God's  name, 
there's  no  harm  done.  Mayhap  you  may  be  shame- 
faced? Some  maidens,  tho'f  they  love  a  man  well 
enough,  yet  they  don't  care  to  tell'n  so  to's  face:  if  that's 
the  case,  why  silence  gives  consent.  367 

Prue.  But  I'm  sure  it  is  not  so,  for  I'll  speak  sooner 
than  you  should  believe  that;  and  I'll  speak  truth, 
though  one  should  always  tell  a  lie  to  a  man;  and  I  don't 
care,  let  my  father  do  what  he  will;  I'm  too  big  to  be 
whipped,  so  I'll  tell  you  plainly  I  don't  like  you,  nor  love 
you  at  all,  nor  never  will,  that's  more;  so,  there's  your 
answer  for  you;  and  don't  trouble  me  no  more,  you  ugly 
thing! 

Ben.   Look  you,  young  woman,  you  may  learn  to  give 


SCENE  III]  LOVE    FOR   LOVE  203 

good  words  however.  I  spoke  you  fair,  d'ye  see,  cand 
civil.  —  As  for  your  love  or  your  liking,  I  don't  value  it 
of  a  rope's  end  —  and  mayhap  I  like  you  as  little  as  you 
do  me.  —  What  I  said  was  in  obedience  to  father;  [3S0 
gad,  I  fear  a  whipping  no  more  than  you  do.  But  I 
tell  you  one  thing,  if  you  should  give  such  language  at 
sea  you'd  have  a  cat-o'-nine-tails  laid  across  your 
shoulders.  Flesh!  who  are  you?  You  heard  t'other 
handsome  young  woman  speak  civilly  to  me,  of  her  own 
accord :  whatever  you  think  of  yourself,  gad,  I  don't 
think  you  are  any  more  to  compare  to  her  than  a  can  of 
small  beer  to  a  bowl  of  punch. 

Prue.  Well,  and  there's  a  handsome  gentleman,  and  a 
fine  gentleman,  and  a  sweet  gentleman,  that  was  here, 
that  loves  me,  and  I  love  him ;  and  if  he  sees  you  speak 
to  me  any  more  he'll  thrash  your  jacket  for  you,  he  will, 
you  great  sea-calf!  393 

Ben.  What,  do  you  mean  that  fair-weather  spark  that 
was  here  just  now?  Will  he  thrash  my  jacket?  —  let'n 
—  let'n.  But  an  he  comes  near  me,  mayhap  I  may 
giv'n  a  salt  eel  for's  supper,"  for  all  that.  What  does 
father  mean  to  leave  me  alone  as  soon  as  I  come  home, 
with  such  a  dirty  dowdy?  Sea-calf!  I  an't  calf  enough 
to  lick  your  chalked  face,  you  cheese-curd,  you!  —  Marry 
thee!  00ns,  I'll  marry  a  Lapland  witch  as  soon, 
and  live  upon  selling  contrary  winds  and  wrecked 
vessels.  403 

Prue.  I  won't  be  called  names,  nor  I  won't  be  abused 
thus,  so  I  won't.  —  If  I  were  a  man  [cries],  you  durst  not 
talk  at  this  rate;  no,  you  durst  not,  you  stinking  tar- 
barrel  ! 

Enter  Mrs.  Foresight  atid  Mrs.  Frail 

Mrs.  Fore.  [Aside  to  Mrs.  Frail.]  They  have  quar- 
relled just  as  we  could  wish. 

Ben.  Tar-barrel?  let  your  sweetheart  there  call  me  so 
if  he'll  take  your  part,  your  Tom  Essence,"  and  I'll  say 


204  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  in 

something  to  him;  gad,  I'll  lace  his  musk  doublet"  for 
him!  I'll  make  him  stink!  he  shall  smell  more  like  a 
weasel  than  a  civet  cat  afore  I  ha'  done  with  'en.        414 

Mrs.  Fore.  Bless  me,  what's  the  matter,  miss?  What, 
does  she  cry?  —  Mr.  Benjamin,  what  have  you  done 
to  her? 

Ben.  Let  her  cry:  the  more  she  cries,  the  less  she'll  — 
she  has  been  gathering  foul  weather  in  her  mouth,  and 
now  it  rains  out  at  her  eyes. 

Mrs.  Fore.  Come,  miss,  come  along  with  me,  and  tell 
me,  poor  child.  422 

Mrs.  Frail.  Lord,  what  shall  we  do?  there's  my 
brother  Foresight  and  Sir  Sampson  coming.  —  Sister,  do 
you  take  miss  down  into  the  pa,rlour,  and  I'll  carry  Mr. 
Benjamin  into  my  chamber,  for  they  must  not  know  that 
they  are  fallen  out.  —  Come,  sir,  will  you  venture  your- 
self with  me?  [Looking  kindly  on  him. 

Ben.  Venture,  mess,  and  that  I  will,  though  'twere  to 
sea  in  a  storm.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  IV 

The  same 

Enter  Sir  Sampson  and  Foresight 

Sir  Samp.  I  left  'em  together  here;  what,  are  they 
gone?  Ben's  a  brisk  boy;  he  has  got  her  into  a  corner; 
father's  own  son,  faith,  he'll  tousle  her,  and  mousle  her; 
the  rogue's  sharp  set,  coming  from  sea;  if  he  should  not 
stay  for  saying  grace,  old  Foresight,  but  fall  to  without 
the  help  of  a  parson,  ha?  Odd,  if  he  should,  I  could  not 
be  angry  with  him;  'twould  be  but  like  me,  a  chip  of  the 
old  block.  Ha!  thou'rt  melancholic,  old  prognostication; 
as  melancholic  as  if  thou  hadst  spilt  the  salt,  or  pared  thy 
nails  on  a  Sunday.  —  Come,  cheer  up,  look  about  thee: 
look  up,  old  stargazer.  —  [Aside.]     Now  is  he  poring 


SCENE  IV]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  20$ 

upon  the  ground  for  a  crooked  pin,  or  an  old  horse-nail, 
wilh  the  head  towards  him.  13 

Fore.  Sir  Sampson,  we'll  have  the  wedding  to-morrow 
morning. 

Sir  Samp.    With  all  my  heart. 

Fore.   At  ten  o'clock,  punctually  at  ten. 

Sir  Samp.  To  a  minute,  to  a  second;  thou  shalt  set 
thy  watch,  and  the  bridegroom  shall  observe  its  motions; 
they  shall  be  married  to  a  minute;  go  to  bed  to  a  min- 
ute; and  when  the  alarm  strikes,  they  shall  keep  time 
like  the  figures  of  St.  Dunstan's  clock,  and  consummatum 
est  shall  ring  all  over  the  parish.  23 

Enter  Scandal 

Scan.   Sir  Sampson,  sad  news! 

Fore.   Bless  us! 

Sir  Samp.    Why,  what's  the  matter? 

Scan.  Can't  you  guess  at  what  ought  to  afflict  you  and 
him,  and  all  of  us  more  than  anything  else? 

Sir  Samp.  Body  o'  me,  I  don't  know  any  universal 
grievance  but  a  new  tax,  or  the  loss  of  the  Canary  fleet. 
Unless  popery  should  be  landed  in  the  west,  or  the  French 
fleet  were  at  anchor  at  Blackwall."  32 

Scan.  No!  Undoubtedly  Mr.  Foresight  knew  all  this, 
and  might  have  prevented  it. 

Fore.    'Tis  no  earthquake! 

Scan.  No,  not  yet;  nor  whirlwind.  But  we  don't 
know  what  it  may  come  to.  —  But  it  has  had  a  conse- 
quence already  that  touches  us  all. 

Sir  Samp.    Why,  body  o'  me,  out  with't.  30 

Scan.  Something  has  appeared  to  your  son  Valentine. 
—  He's  gone  to  bed  upon't,  and  very  ill.  —  He  speaks 
little,  yet  says  he  has  a  world  to  say.  Asks  for  his  father 
and  the  wise  Foresight;  talks  of  Raymond  Lully,°and  the 
ghost  of  Lilly."  He  has  secrets  to  impart  I  suppose  to 
you  two.     I  can  get  nothing  out  of  him  but  sighs.     He 


206  LOVE    FOR   LOVE  [ACT  m 

desires  he  may  see  you  in  the  morning,  but  would  not  be 
disturbed  to-night,  because  he  has  some  business  to  do  in 
a  dream.  48 

Sir  Samp.  Hoity,  toity,  what  have  I  to  do  with  his 
dreams  or  his  divinations?  —  Body  o'  me,  this  is  a  trick 
to  defer  signing  the  conveyance.  I  warrant  the  devil  will 
tell  him  in  a  dream,  that  he  must  not  part  with  his  estate; 
but  I'll  bring  him  a  parson,  to  tell  him  that  the  devil's  a 
liar;  or,  if  that  won't  do,  I'll  bring  a  lawyer  that  shall 
outlie  the  devil.  And  so  I'll  try  whether  my  blackguard  " 
or  his  shall  get  the  better  of  the  day.  [Exit. 

Scan.   Alas,  Mr.  Foresight!  I'm  afraid  all  is  not  right. 

—  You  are  a  wise  man,  and  a  conscientious  man;  a 
searcher  into  obscurity  and  futurity;  and  if  you  commit 
an  error,  it  is  with  a  great  deal  of  consideration  and  dis- 
cretion and  caution.  61 

Fore.    Ah,  good  Mr.  Scandal  — 

Scan.  Nay,  nay,  'tis  manifest;  I  do  not  flatter  you. — 
But  Sir  Sampson  is  hasty,  very  hasty;  I'm  afraid  he  is 
not  scrupulous  enough,  Mr.  Foresight.  —  He  has  been 
wicked,  and  Heaven  grant  he  may  mean  well  in  his  affair 
with  you. —  But  my  mind  gives  me,  these  things  cannot 
be  wholly  insignificant.  You  are  wise,  and  should  not 
be  overreached,  methinks  you  should  not.  6g 

Fore.   Alas,  Mr.  Scandal!  — Hunianum  est  errare. 

Scan.  You  say  true,  man  will  err;  mere  man  will 
err  —  but  you  are  something  more.  —  There  have  been 
wise  men ;  but  they  were  such  as  you  —  men  who 
consulted    the    stars,    and    were    observers    of    omens. 

—  Solomon  was  wise,  but  how?  —  by  his  judgement 
in  astrology:  so  says  Pineda"  in  his  third  book  and 
eighth  chapter. 

Fore.   You  are  learned,  Mr.  Scandal !  78 

Scan.    A    trifler  —  but   a    lover   of    art.  —  And    the 

wise   men    of    the    East    owed   their   instruction   to    a 

star,  which  is  rightly  observed  by  Gregory  the  Great 

in  favour  of  astrology!"  And  Albertus  Magnus"  makes 


SCENE  IV]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  207 

it  the  most  valuable  science;  because  (says  he)  it 
teaches  us  to  consider  the  causation  of  causes,  in  the 
causes  of  things. 

Fore.  I  protest  I  honour  you,  Mr.  Scandal:  I  did  not 
think  you  had  been  read  in  these  matters.  —  Few  young 
men  are  inclined  —  ss 

Scan.  I  thank  my  stars  that  have  inclined  me.  —  But  I 
fear  this  marriage,  and  making  over  this  estate,  this 
transferring  of  a  rightful  inheritance,  will  bring  judge- 
ments upon  us.  I  prophesy  it,  and  I  would  not  have 
the  fate  of  Cassandra,  not  to  be  believed.  Valentine  is 
disturbed,  what  can  be  the  cause  of  that?  And  Sir 
Sampson  is  hurried  on  by  an  unusual  violence. — I  fear 
he  does  not  act  wholly  from  himself;  methinks  he  does 
not  look  as  he  used  to  do. 

Fore.  He  was  always  of  an  impetuous  nature.  —  But 
as  to  this  marriage,  I  have  consulted  the  stars,  and  all 
appearances  are  prosperous.  100 

Scan.  Come,  come,  Mr.  Foresight,  let  not  the  prospect 
of  worldly  lucre  carry  you  beyond  your  judgement,  nor 
against  your  conscience  —  you  are  not  satisfied  that  you 
act  justly. 

Fore.   How? 

Scan.  You  are  not  satisfied,  I  say. —  I  am  loath  to 
discourage  you  —  but  it  is  palpable  that  you  are  not 
satisfied. 

Fore.  How  does  it  appear,  Mr.  Scandal?  I  think  I 
am  very  well  satisfied.  "o 

Scan.  Either  you  suffer  yourself  to  deceive  yourself; 
or  you  do  not  know  yourself. 

Fore.    Pray  explain  yourself. 

Scan.    Do  you  sleep  well  o'  nights? 

Fore.   Very  well. 

Scan.   Are  you  certain?  you  do  not  look  so. 

Fore.   I  am  in  health,  I  think. 

Scan.  So  was  Valentine  this  morning;  and  looked 
just  so. 


208  LOVE   FOR    LOVE  [act  m 

Fore.  How !  am  I  altered  any  way?  I  don't  perceive 
it.  121 

Scan.  That  may  be,  but  your  beard  is  longer  than  it 
was  two  hours  ago. 

Fore.   Indeed!  bless  me! 

Enter  Mrs.  Foresight 

Mrs.  Fore.  Husband,  will  you  go  to  bed?  it's  ten 
o'clock.  —  Mr.  Scandal,  your  servant. 

Scan.  [Aside.]  Pox  on  her!  she  has  interrupted  my 
design:  but  I  must  work  her  into  the  project.  —  [Aloud.] 
You  keep  early  hours,  madam. 

Mrs.  Fore.  Mr.  Foresight  is  punctual,  we  sit  up  after 
him.  131 

Fore.  My  dear,  pray  lend  me  your  glass,  your  Uttle 
looking-glass. 

Scan.  Pray,  lend  it  him,  madam  —  I'll  tell  you  the 
reason.  —  [She  gives  him  the  glass:  Scandal  and  she  talk 
aside.]  My  passion  for  you  is  grown  so  violent,  that  I 
am  no  longer  master  of  myself.  —  I  was  interrupted  in 
the  morning,  when  you  had  charity  enough  to  give  me 
your  attention,  and  I  had  hopes  of  finding  another  op- 
portunity of  explaining  myself  to  you;  but  was  dis- 
appointed all  this  day;  and  the  uneasiness  that  has 
attended  me  ever  since,  brings  me  now  hither  at  this 
unseasonable  hour.  143 

Mrs.  Fore.  Was  there  ever  such  impudence!  to  make 
love  to  me  before  my  husband's  face!  I'll  swear  I'll 
tell  him. 

Scan.  Do;  I'll  die  a  martyr,  rather  than  disclaim  my 
passion.  But  come  a  little  farther  this  way,  and  I'll  tell 
you  what  project  I  had  to  get  him  out  of  the  way,  that 
I  might  have  an  opportunity  of  waiting  upon  you.    150 

Fore.  [Looking  i)i  the  glass.]  I  do  not  see  any  revolu- 
tion here;  methinks  I  look  with  a  serene  and  benign 
aspect  —  pale,  a  little  pale  —  but  the  roses  of  these 


SCENE  IV]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  209 

cheeks  have  been  gathered  many  years.  —  Ha!  I  do  not 
hke  that  sudden  flushing  —  gone  already!  —  hem,  hem, 
hem!  faintish.  My  heart  is  pretty  good;  yet  it  beats; 
and  my  pulses,  ha!  — ^  I  have  none  —  mercy  on  me!  — 
hum  —  yes,  here  they  are  —  gallop,  gallop,  gallop,  gal- 
lop, gallop,  gallop,  hey!   whither  will  they  hurry  me? 

—  Now  they're  gone  again  —  and  now  I'm  faint  again; 
and  pale  again,  and,  hem!  and  my,  hem!  —  breath,  hem! 

—  grows  short;   hem!   hem!   he,  he,  hem!  162 
Scan.   [Aside  to  Mrs.  Foresight.]     It  takes;   pursue 

it,  in  the  name  of  love  and  pleasure! 

Mrs.  Fore.   How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Foresight? 

Fore.  Hum,  not  so  well  as  I  thought  I  was.  Lend  me 
your  hand. 

Scan.  Look  you  there  now  —  your  lady  says  your 
sleep  has  been  unquiet  of  late. 

Fore.    Very  likely.  170 

Mrs.  Fore.  Oh,  mighty  restless;  but  I  was  afraid  to 
tell  liim  so.  — He  has  been  subject  to  talking  and  start- 
ing. 

Scan.   And  did  not  use  to  be  so? 

Mrs.  Fore.  Never,  never,  till  within  these  three  nights; 
I  cannot  say  that  he  has  once  broken  my  rest  since  we 
have  been  married. 

Fore.    I  will  go  to  bed. 

Scan.  Do  so,  Mr.  Foresight,  and  say  your  prayers.  — 
He  looks  better  than  he  did.  180 

Mrs.  Fore.    Nurse,  nurse!  [Calls. 

Fore.    Do  you  think  so,  Mr.  Scandal? 

Scan.  Yes,  yes;  I  hope  this  will  be  gone  by  morning, 
taking  it  in  time. 

Fore.   I  hope  so. 

Enter  Nurse 

Mrs.  Fore.  Nurse,  your  master  is  not  well;  put  him  to 
bed. 

Scan.   I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  see  Valentine  in  the 

CONGREVE — 14 


2IO  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  hi 

morning.  You  had  best  take  a  little  diacodian"  and  cow- 
slip water,  and  lie  upon  your  back,  maybe  you  may 
dream.  191 

Fore.  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Scandal,  I  will.  —  Nurse,  let 
me  have  a  watch-light,  and  lay  The  Crumbs  of  Comfort "  by 
me. 

Nurse.   Yes,  sir. 

Fore.   And  —  hem,  hem!     I  am  very  faint. 

Scan.   No,  no;  you  look  much  better. 

Fore.  Do  I?  —  [To  Nurse.]  And,  d'ye  hear,  bring 
me,  let  me  see  —  within  a  quarter  of  twelve  —  hem  — 
he,  hem!  —  just  upon  the  turning  of  the  tide,  bring  me  the 
urinal.  And  I  hope  neither  the  lord  of  my  ascendant, 
nor  the  moon,  will  be  combust;  "  and  then  I  may  do  well. 

Sca7t.  I  hope  so.  Leave  that  to  me;  I  will  erect  a 
scheme;  and  I  hope  I  shall  find  both  Sol  and  Venus  in 
the  sixth  house."  205 

Fore.  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Scandal;  indeed  that  would 
be  a  great  comfort  to  me.     Hem,  hem;  good  night. 

[Exit  with  Nurse. 

Scan.  Good  night,  good  Mr.  Foresight;  and  I  hope 
Mars  and  Venus  will  be  in  conjunction,  while  your  wife 
and  I  are  together. 

Mrs.  Fore.  Well,  arid  what  use  do  you  hope  to  make 
of  this  project?  you  don't  think  that  you  are  ever  like  to 
succeed  in  your  design  upon  me?  213 

Scan.  Yes,  faith,  I  do;  I  have  a  better  opinion  both 
of  you  and  myself  than  to  despair. 

Mrs.  Fore.  Did  you  ever  hear  such  a  toad?  Hark  ye, 
devil!   do  you  think  any  woman  honest? 

Scan.  Yes,  several  very  honest;  they'll  cheat  a  little 
at  cards,  sometimes;  but  that's  nothing. 

Mrs.  Fore.    Pshaw!  but  virtuous,  I  mean.  220 

Scan.  Yes,  faith;  I  believe  some  women  are  virtuous 
too;  but  'tis  as  I  believe  some  men  are  valiant,  through 
fear.  For  why  should  a  man  court  danger,  or  a  woman 
shun  pleasure? 


SCENE  IV]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  211 

Mrs.  Fore.  Oh,  monstrous!  what  are  conscience  and 
honour? 

Scan.  Why,  honour  is  a  public  enemy;  and  conscience 
a  domestic  thief;  and  he  that  would  secure  his  pleasure, 
must  pay  a  tribute  to  one,  and  go  halves  with  t'other. 
As  for  honour,  that  you  have  secured;  for  you  have 
purchased  a  perpetual  opportunity  for  pleasure.  231 

Mrs.  Fore.   An  opportunity  for  pleasure? 

Scan.  Aye,  your  husband ;  a  husband  is  an  opportunity 
for  pleasure;  so  you  have  taken  care  of  honour,  and  'tis 
the  least  I  can  do  to  take  care  of  conscience. 

Mrs.  Fore.  And  so  you  think  we  are  free  for  one 
another. 

Scan.  Yes,  faith,  I  think  so;  I  love  to  speak  my 
mind.  239 

Mrs.  Fore.  Why,  then  I'll  speak  my  mind.  Now,  as 
to  this  affair  between  you  and  me.  Here  you  make  love 
tome;  why,  I'll  confess,  it  does  not  displease  me.  Your 
person  is  well  enough,  and  your  understanding  is  not 
amiss. 

Scan.  I  have  no  great  opinion  of  myself;  but  I  think 
I'm  neither  deformed  nor  a  fool. 

Mrs.  Fore.  But  you  have  a  villainous  character;  you 
are  a  libertine  in  speech  as  well  as  practice.  248 

Scan.  Come,  I  know  what  you  would  say;  you  think 
it  more  dangerous  to  be  seen  in  conversation  with  me, 
than  to  allow  some  other  men  the  last  favour.  You 
mistake;  the  hberty  I  take  in  talking  is  purely  affected, 
for  the  service  of  your  sex.  He  that  first  cries  out, 
"  Stop,  thief!"  is  often  he  that  has  stolen  the  treasure. 
I  am  a  juggler,  that  act  by  confederacy;  and,  if  you 
please,  we'll  put  a  trick  upon  the  world. 

Mrs.  Fore.  Aye;  but  you  are  such  a  universal  juggler, 
that  I'm  afraid  you  have  a  great  many  confederates. 

Scan.    Faith,  I'm  sound.  259 

Mrs.  Fore.   Oh,  fie! —  I'll  swear  you're  impudent. 
Scan.   I'll  swear  you're  handsome. 


212  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  hi 

Mrs.  Fore.  Pish!  you'd  tell  me  so,  though  you  did 
not  think  so. 

Scan.  And  you'd  think  so,  though  I  should  not  tell 
you  so.  And  now  I  think  we  know  one  another  pretty 
well. 

Mrs.  Fore.   0  Lord,  who's  here?  267 

Enter  Mrs.  Frail  and  Ben 

Ben.  Mess,  I  love  to  speak  my  mind;  father  has 
nothing  to  do  with  me.  Nay,  I  can't  say  that  neither; 
he  has  something  to  do  with  me.  But  what  does  that 
signify?  If  so  be,  that  I  be'n't  minded  to  be  steered  by 
him,  'tis  as  tho'f  he  should  strive  against  wind  and  tide. 

Mrs.  Frail.  Aye,  but,  my  dear,  we  must  keep  it  secret 
till  the  estate  be  settled;  for  you  know  marrying  without 
an  estate  is  like  sailing  in  a  ship  without  ballast. 

Ben.  He!  he!  he!  Why,  that's  true;  just  so  for  all 
the  world  it  is  indeed,  as  like  as  two  cable-ropes. 

Mrs.  Frail.  And  though  I  have  a  good  portion,  you 
know  one  would  not  venture  all  in  one  bottom.        279 

Ben.  Why,  that's  true  again;  for  mayhap  one  bottom 
may  spring  a  leak.  You  have  hit  it  indeed,  mess,  you've 
nicked  the  channel." 

Mrs.  Frail.  Well,  but  if  you  should  forsake  me  after 
all,  you'd  break  my  heart. 

Ben.  Break  your  heart!  I'd  rather  the  Marygold" 
should  break  her  cable  in  a  storm,  as  well  as  I  love  her. 
Flesh!  you  don't  think  I'm  false-hearted  like  a  landman! 
A  sailor  will  be  honest,  tho'f  mayhap  he  has  never  a 
penny  of  money  in  his  pocket.  —  Mayhap  I  may  not 
have  so  fair  a  face  as  a  citizen  or  a  courtier;  but  all  for 
that,  I've  as  good  blood  in  my  veins,  and  a  heart  as  sound 
as  a  biscuit.  292 

Mrs.  Frail.   And  will  you  love  me  always? 

Ben.  Nay,  an  I  love  once,  I'll  stick  Kke  pitch;  I'll  tell 
you  that.     Come,  I'll  sing  you  a  song  for  a  sailor. 


SCENE  IV]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  213 

Mrs.  Frail.  Hold,  there's  my  sister;  I'll  call  her  to 
hear  it. 

Mrs.  Fore.  Well,  I  won't  go  to  bed  to  my  husband  to- 
night; because  I'll  retire  to  my  own  chamber,  and  think 
of  what  you  have  said.  300 

Scan.  Well;  you'll  give  me  leave  to  wait  upon  you  to 
your  chamber  door,  and  leave  you  my  last  instructions? 

Mrs.  Fore.   Hold,  here's  my  sister  coming  towards  us. 

Mrs.  Frail.  If  it  won't  interrupt  you,  I'll  entertain 
you  with  a  song. 

Beti.  The  song  was  made  upon  one  of  our  ship's  crew's 
wife;  our  boatswain  made  the  song;  mayhap  you  may 
know  her,  sir.  Before  she  was  married,  she  was  called 
buxom  Joan  of  Deptford.         .  309 

Scan.   I  have  heard  of  her.  [Ben  sings. 


Ballad 

"^  soldier  and  a  sailor, 
A  tinker  and  a  tailor, 
Had  once  a  doubtful  strife,  sir, 
To  make  a  maid  a  wife,  sir. 

Whose  name  was  buxom  Joan. 
For  now  the  time  was  ended. 
When  she  no  more  intended 
To  lick  her  lips  at  men,  sir. 
And  gnaw  the  sheets  in  vain,  sir, 

And  lie  0'  nights  alone.  320 

"  The  soldier  swore  like  thunder, 
He  loved  her  more  than  plunder; 
And  showed  her  many  a  scar,  sir, 
That  he  had  brought  from  far,  sir. 

With  fighting  for  her  sake. 
The  tailor  thought  to  please  her. 
With  offering  her  his  measure. 


214  LOVE    FOR   LOVE  [act  iii 

The  tinker  too  with  mettle, 
Said  he  could  mend  her  kettle 

And  stop  up  every  leak.  330 

"But  while  these  three  were  prating, 
The  sailor  slily  waiting, 
Thought  if  it  came  about,  sir, 
That  they  should  all  fall  out,  sir, 

He  then  might  play  his  part. 
And  just  e'en  as  he  meant,  sir, 
To  loggerheads  they  went,"  sir. 
And  then  he  let  fly  at  her 
A  shot  'twixt  wind  and  water. 

That  won  this  fair  maid's  heart."  340 

If  some  of  our  crew  that  came  to  see  me  are  not  gone, 
you  shall  see  that  we  sailors  can  dance  sometimes  as  well 
as  other  folks.  —  [Whistles.]  I  warrant  that  brings  'em, 
an'  they  be  within  hearing. 

Enter  Seamen 

Oh,  here  they  be!  —  and  fiddles  along  with  'em.  Come, 
my  lads,  let's  have  a  round,  and  I'll  make  one. 

[They  dance. 

Ben.  We're  merry  folks,  we  sailors,  we  han't  much  to 
care  for.  Thus  we  live  at  sea;  eat  biscuit,  and  drink 
flip;  put  on  a  clean  shirt  once  a  quarter  —  come  home 
and  lie  with  our  landladies  once  a  year,  get  rid  of  a  little 
money;  and  then  put  off  with  the  next  fair  wind.  How 
d'ye  like  us?  352 

Mrs.  Frail.  Oh,  you  are  the  happiest,  merriest  men 
alive ! 

Mrs.  Fore.  We're  beholden  to  Mr.  Benjamin  for  this 
entertainment.  —  I  believe  it's  late. 

Ben.  Why,  forsooth,  an  you  think  so,  you  had  best  go 
to  bed.     For  my  part,  I  mean  to  toss  a  can,  and  remem- 


SCENE  ivj  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  ,  21$ 

ber  my  sweetheart,  afore  I  turn  in;  mayhap  I  may  dream 
of  her. 

Mrs.  Fore.  Mr.  Scandal,  you  had  best  go  to  bed  and 
dream  too.  362 

Scan.  Why,  faith,  I  have  a  good  Uvely  imagination; 
and  can  dream  as  much  to  the  purpose  as  another,  if  I 
set  about  it;  but  dreaming  is  the  poor  retreat  of  a  lazy, 
hopeless,  and  imperfect  lover;  'tis  the  last  glimpse  of 
love  to  worn-out  sinners,  and  the  faint  dawning  of  a  bliss 
to  wishing  girls  and  growing  boys. 

There's  nought  but  willing,  ivaking  love  that  can 
Make  blest  the  ripened  maid  and  finished  man.       370 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  THE  FOURTH 
Scene  I 
An  Ante-room  at  Valentine's  Lodging 
Scandal  and  Jeremy 

Scan.  Well,  is  your  master  ready?  does  he  look 
madly,  and  talk  madly? 

Jer.  Yes,  sir;  you  need  make  no  great  doubt  of  that; 
he  that  was  so  near  turning  poet  yesterday  morning, 
can't  be  much  to  seek  in  playing  the  madman  to-day. 

Scan.  Would  he  have  Angelica  acquainted  with  the 
reason  of  his  design? 

Jer.  No,  sir,  not  yet;  he  has  a  mind  to  try  whether 
his  playing  the  madman  won't  make  her  play  the  fool, 
and  fall  in  love  with  him;  or  at  least  own  that  she  has 
loved  him  all  this  while  and  concerJed  it.  n 

Scan.  I  saw  her  take  coach  just  now  with  her  maid; 
and  think  I  heard  her  bid  the  coachman  drive  hither. 

Jer.  Like  enough,  sir,  for  I  told  her  maid  this  morn- 
ing my  master  was  run  stark  mad  only  for  love  of  her 
mistress,  I  hear  a  coach  stop;  if  it  should  be  she,  sir, 
I  believe  he  would  not  see  her,  till  he  hears  how  she  takes 
it. 

Scan.   Well,  I'll  try  her:   'tis  she,  here  she  comes. 

Enter  Angelica  with  Jenny 

Ang.  Mr.  Scandal,  I  suppose  you  don't  think  it  a 
novelty  to  see  a  woman  visit  a  man  at  his  own  lodgings 
in  a  morning?  22 

216 


SCENE  I]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  21/ 

Scan.  Not  upon  a  kind  occasion,  madam.  But  when 
a  lady  comes  tyrannically  to  insult  a  ruined  lover,  and 
make  manifest  the  cruel  triumphs  of  her  beauty,  the 
barbarity  of  it  something  surprises  me. 

Ang.  I  don't  Uke  raillery  from  a  serious  face.  —  Pray 
tell  me  what  is  the  matter? 

Jer.  No  strange  matter,  madam;  my  master's  mad, 
that's  all :  I  suppose  your  ladyship  has  thought  him  so  a 
great  while.  31 

Ang.   How  d'ye  mean,  mad? 

Jer.  Why,  faith,  madam,  he's  mad  for  want  of  his 
wits,  just  as  he  was  poor  for  want  of  money;  his  head  is 
e'en  as  light  as  his  pockets;  and  anybody  that  has  a 
mind  to  a  bad  bargain,  can't  do  better  than  to  beg  him 
for  his  estate. 

Ang.  If  you  speak  truth,  your  endeavouring  at  wit  is 
vry  unseasonable. 

Scan.    [Aside.]     She's  concerned,  and  loves  him.      40 

Ang.  Mr.  Scandal,  you  cannot  think  me  guilty  of  so 
much  inhumanity  as  not  to  be  concerned  for  a  man  I 
must  own  myself  obliged  to;   pray  tell  me  the  truth. 

Scan.  Faith,  madam,  I  wish  telling  a  lie  would  mend 
the  matter.  But  this  is  no  new  effect  of  an  unsuccessful 
passion. 

Ang.  [Aside]  I  know  not  what  to  think.  —  Yet  I 
should  be  vexed  to  have  a  trick  put  upon  me.  —  [Aloud.] 
May  I  not  see  him?  49 

Scan.  I'm  afraid  the  physician  is  not  willing  you 
should  see  him  yet.  —  Jeremy,  go  in  and  inquire. 

[Exit  Jeremy. 

Ang.  [Aside.]  Ha!  I  saw  him  wink  and  smile  —  I 
fancy  'tis  a  trick  —  I'll  try.  —  [Aloud.]  I  would  dis- 
guise to  all  the  world  a  failing  which  I  must  own  to  you. 
—  I  fear  my  happiness  depends  upon  the  recovery  of 
Valentine.  Therefore  I  conjure  you,  as  you  are  his 
friend,  and  as  you  have  compassion  upon  one  fearful  of 
affliction,  to  tell  me  what  I  am  to  hope  for.  —  I  cannot 


2lS  LOVE   FOR  LOVE  [act  iv 

speak  —  but  you  may  tell  me,  for  you  know  what  I 
would  ask.  60 

Scan.  [Aside.]  So,  this  is  pretty  plain.  —  [Aloud.] 
Be  not  too  much  concerned,  madam,  I  hope  his  condi- 
tion is  not  desperate:  an  acknowledgment  of  love  from 
you,  perhaps,  may  work  a  cure;  as  the  fear  of  your  aver- 
sion occasioned  his  distemper. 

Ang.  [Aside.]  Say  you  so?  nay,  then  I'm  convinced; 
and  if  I  don't  play  trick  for  trick,  may  I  never  taste  the 
pleasure  of  revenge!  —  [Aloud.]  Acknowledgment  of 
love!  I  find  you  have  mistaken  my  compassion,  and 
think  me  guilty  of  a  weakness  I'm  a  stranger  to.  But  [70 
I  have  too  much  sincerity  to  deceive  you,  and  too  much 
charity  to  sulifer  him  to  be  deluded  with  vain  hopes. 
Good  nature  and  humanity  oblige  me  to  be  concerned 
for  him;  but  to  love  is  neither  in  my  power  nor  inclina- 
tion; and  if  he  can't  be  cured  without  I  suck  the  poison 
from  his  wounds,  I'm  afraid  he  won't  recover  his  senses 
till  I  lose  mine. 

Scan.  [Aside.]  Hey,  brave  woman,  i'faith !  —  [Aloud.] 
Won't  you  see  him  then,  if  he  desire  it?  79 

Ang.  What  signify  a  madman's  desires?  Besides 
'twould  make  me  uneasy.  If  I  don't  see  him,  perhaps 
my  concern  for  him  may  lessen.  If  I  forgot  him,  'tis  no 
more  than  he  has  done  by  himself;  and  now  the  surprise 
is  over,  methinks  I  am  not  half  so  sorry  as  I  was. 

Scan.  So,  faith,  good  nature  works  apace;  you  were 
confessing  just  now  an  obligation  to  his  love. 

Ang.  But  I  have  considered  that  passions  are  unrea- 
sonable and  involuntary;  if  he  loves,  he  can't  help  it; 
and  if  I  don't  love,  I  can't  help  it;  no  more  than  he  can 
help  his  being  a  man,  or  I  my  being  a  woman;  or  no  more 
than  I  can  help  my  want  of  inclination  to  stay  longer 
here.  —  Come,  Jenny.  92 

[Exeunt  Angelica  and  Jenny. 

Scan.  Humph!  — An  admirable  composition,  faith, 
this  same  womankind! 


SCENE  I]  LOVE    FOR    LOVE  219 

Re-enter  Jerk  my 

Jer.    What,  is  she  gone,  sir? 

Scan.  Gone?  Why,  she  was  never  here;  nor  any- 
where else;  nor  I  don't  know  her  if  I  see  her;  nor  you 
neither. 

Jer.  Good  lack!  What's  the  matter  now?  Are  any 
more  of  us  to  be  mad?  Why,  sir,  my  master  longs  to 
see  her,  and  is  almost  mad  in  good  earnest  with  the  joyful 
news  of  her  being  here.  102 

Scan.  We  are  all  under  a  mistake.  Ask  no  questions, 
for  I  can't  resolve  you;  but  I'll  inform  your  master.  In 
the  meantime,  if  our  project  succeed  no  better  with  his 
father  than  it  does  with  his  mistress,  he  may  descend 
from  his  exaltation  of  madness  into  the  road  of  common 
sense,  and  be  content  only  to  be  made  a  fool  with  other 
reasonable  people.  —  I  hear  Sir  Sampson.  You  know 
your  cue;   I'll  to  your  master,  [Exit. 

Enter  Sir  S.\mpson  and  Buckram 

Sir  Samp.  D'ye  see,  Mr.  Buckram,  here's  the  paper 
signed  with  his  own  hand.  112 

Buck.  Good,  sir.  And  the  conveyance  is  ready 
drawn  in  this  box,  if  he  be  ready  to  sign  and  seal. 

Sir  Samp.  Ready,  body  o'  me,  he  must  be  ready!  His 
sham  sickness  shan't  excuse  him.  —  Oh,  here's  his 
scoundrel.  —  Sirrah,"  where's  your  master? 

Jer.   Ah,  sir,  he's  quite  gone. 

Sir  Samp.    Gone!    What,  he  is  not  dead? 

Jer.    No,  sir,  not  dead.  120 

Sir  Samp.  What,  is  he  gone  out  of  town  ?  Run 
away,  ha!     He  has  tricked  me?     Speak,  varlet. 

Jer.  No,  no,  sir,  he's  safe  enough,  sir,  an  he  were  but 
as  sound,  poor  gentleman.  He  is,  indeed,  here,  sir,  and 
not  here,  sir. 

Sir  Samp.   Heyday,  rascal,  do  you  banter  me?     Sir- 


220  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  iv 

rah,  d'ye  banter  me?  —  Speak,  sirrah,  where  is  he?  For 
I  will  find  him. 

Jer.  Would  you  could,  sir!  for  he  has  lost  himself. 
Indeed,  sir,  I  have  almost  broke  my  heart  about  him  — 
I  can't  refrain  tears  when  I  think  of  him,  sir:  I'm  as 
melancholy  for  him  as  a  passing-bell,  sir;  or  a  horse  in  a 
pound.  133 

Sir  Samp.  A  pox  confound  your  similitudes,  sir!  — 
Speak  to  be  understood,  and  tell  me  in  plain  terms 
what  the  matter  is  with  him,  or  I'll  crack  your  fool's 
skull. 

Jer.  Ah,  you've  hit  it,  sir!  that's  the  matter  with  him, 
sir;  his  skull's  cracked,  poor  gentleman!  He's  stark 
mad,  sir.  140 

Sir  Samp.    Mad! 

Buck.    What,  is  he  non  compos? 

Jer.    Quite  non  compos,  sir. 

Buck.  Why,  then  all's  obliterated,  Sir  Sampson;  if  he 
be  non  compos  mentis,  his  act  and  deed  will  be  of  no  effect, 
it  is  not  good  in  law. 

Sir  Samp.  Oons,  I  won't  believe  it!  Let  me  see  him, 
sir.  —  Mad!     I'll  make  him  find  his  senses. 

Jer.  Mr.  Scandal  is  with  him,  sir;  I'll  knock  at  the 
door.  [Goes  to  the  scene,  which  opens.   150 


Scene  II 

Another  Room  at  Valentine's  Lodgings 

Sir  Sampson,  Valentine,  Scandal,  Jeremy,  and  Buck- 
ram.    Valentine  upon  a  couch,  disorderly  dressed 

Sir  Samp.    How  now!  what's  here  to  do? 
Val.    [Starting.]     Ha!    who's  that? 
Scan.    For   Heaven's   sake    softly,    sir,    and    gently! 
Don't  provoke  him. 


i 


SCENE  II]  LOVE    FOR    LOVE  221 

Val.   Answer  me,  who  is  that,  and  that? 

Sir  Samp.  Gadsobs,  does  he  not  know  me?  Is  he 
mischievous?  I'll  speak  gently.  —  Val,  Val,  dost  thou 
not  know  me,  boy?  Not  know  thy  own  father,  Val? 
I  am  thy  own  father,  and  this  is  honest  Brief  Buckram 
the  lawyer.  lo 

Val.  It  may  be  so  —  I  did  not  know  you  —  the  world 
is  full.  —  There  are  people  that  we  do  know  and  people 
that  we  do  not  know;  and  yet  the  sun  shines  upon  all 
alike.  —  There  are  fathers  that  have  many  children ; 
and  there  are  children  that  have  many  fathers.  —  'Tis 
strange!  but  I  am  Truth,  and  come  to  give  the  world 
the  lie. 

Sir  Samp.  Body  'o  me,  I  know  not  what  to  say  to 
him! 

Val.  Why  does  that  lawyer  wear  black?  —  docs  he 
carry  his  conscience  withoutside?  —  Lawyer,  what  art 
thou?     Dost  thou  know  me?  22 

Buck.     0  Lord!   what  must  I  say?  —  Yes,  sir. 

Val.  Thou  liest,  for  I  am  Truth.  'Tis  hard  I  cannot 
get  a  livelihood  amongst  you.  I  have  been  sworn  out  of 
Westminster  Hall  the  first  day  of  every  term"  —  let  me 
see  —  no  matter  how  long  —  but  I'll  tell  you  one  thing; 
it's  a  question  that  would  puzzle  an  arithmetician,  if  you 
should  ask  him,  whether  the  Bible  saves  more  souls  in 
Westminster  Abbey  or  damns  more  in  Westminster  Hall; 
for  my  part,  I  am  Truth,  and  can't  tell;  I  have  very  few 
acquaintance.  32 

Sir  Samp.  Body  o'  me,  he  talks  sensibly  in  his  mad- 
ness! has  he  no  intervals? 

Jcr.   Very  short,  sir. 

Buck.  Sir,  I  can  do  you  no  service  while  he's  in  this 
condition;  here's  your  paper,  sir  —  he  may  do  me  a 
mischief  if  I  stay  —  the  conveyance  is  ready,  sir,  if  he 
recover  his  senses.  [Exit  Buckram. 

Sir  Samp.    Hold,  hold,  hold,  don't  you  go  yet.  40 

Scan.   You'd  better  let  him  go,  sir;  and  send  for  him 


222  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  iv 

if  there  be  occasion;    for  I  fancy  his  presence  provokes 
him  more. 

Val.  Is  the  lawyer  gone?  'Tis  well;  then  we  may 
drink  about  without  going  together  by  the  ears  — 
heigh-ho !  What  o'clock  is't?  —  My  father  here !  Your 
blessing,  sir. 

Sir  Samp.  He  recovers.  —  Bless  thee,  Val  —  how  dost 
thou  do,  boy? 

Val.  Thank  you,  sir,  pretty  well  —  I  have  been  a 
little  out  of  order  —  won't  you  please  to  sit,  sir?  si 

Sir  Samp.  Aye,  boy.  —  Come,  thou  shalt  sit  down  by 
me. 

Val.    Sir,  'tis  my  duty  to  wait. 

Sir  Samp.  No,  no,  come,  come,  sit  thee  down,  honest 
Val;  how  dost  thou  do?  Let  me  feel  thy  pulse.  —  Oh, 
pretty  well  now,  Val;  body  o'  me,  I  was  sorry  to  see 
thee  indisposed!  But  I'm  glad  thou  art  better,  honest 
Val. 

Val.    I  thank  you,  sir.  60 

Scan.    [Aside.]     Miracle!    the  monster  grows  loving. 

Sir  Samp.  Let  me  feel  thy  hand  again,  Val;  it  does 
not  shake  —  I  believe  thou  canst  write,  Val;  ha,  boy, 
thou  canst  write  thy  name,  Val?  —  Jeremy,  step  and 
overtake  Mr.  Buckram,  bid  him  make  haste  back  with 
the  conveyance!   quick!   quick! 

[Whispers  to  Jeremy,  who  goes  out. 

Scan.  [Aside.]  That  ever  I  should  suspect  such  a 
heathen  of  any  remorse! 

Sir  Samp.    Dost  thou  know  this  paper,  Val?     I  know 

thou'rt  honest,  and  wilt  perform  articles."  70 

[Shows  him  the  paper,  but  holds  it  out  of  his  reach. 

Val.    Pray,  let  me  see  it,  sir.     You  hold  it  so  far  off, 

that  I  can't  tell  whether  I  know  it  or  no. 

Sir  Samp.  See  it,  boy?  aye,  aye,  why  thou  dost  see  it  — 
'tis  thy  own  hand,  Vally.  Why,  let  me  see,  I  can  read  it 
as  plain  as  can  be;  look  you  here  —  [Reads.]  "The  con- 
ditions of  this  obligation  "  —  look  you,  as  plain  as  can  be, 


SCKNE  11]  LOVE    FOR    LOVE  223 

so  it  begins;  and  then  at  the  bottom  -—"As  witness  my 
hand,  Valentine  Legend,"  in  great  letters;  why,  'tis  as 
plain  as  the  nose  in  one's  face;  what,  are  my  eyes  better 
than  thine?  I  believe  I  can  read  it  farther  off  yet  —  let 
me  see.  [Stretches  out  his  arm  as  far  as  he  can. 

Val.   Will  you  please  to  let  me  hold  it,  sir?  82 

Sir  Samp.  Let  thee  hold  it,  sayest  thou?  —  aye,  with 
all  my  heart.  —  What  matter  is  it  who  holds  it?  what 
need  anybody  hold  it?  —  I'll  put  it  in  my  pocket,  Val, 
and  then  nobody  need  hold  it.  —  [Puts  the  paper  in  his 
pocket.]  There,  Val,  it's  safe  enough,  boy  —  but  thou 
shalt  have  it  as  soon  as  thou  hast  set  thy  hand  to  another 
paper,  Httle  Val.  89 

Re-enter  Jeremy  with  Buckram 

Val.  What,  is  my  bad  genius  here  again!  Oh,  no,  it 
is  the  lawyer  with  his  itching  palm;  and  he's  come  to  be 
scratched  —  my  nails  are  not  long  enough  —  let  me  have 
a  pair  of  red-hot  tongs,  quickly!  quickly!  and  you  shall 
see  me  act  St.  Dunstan,  and  lead  the  devil  by  the  nose." 

Buck.  O  Lord,  let  me  be  gone!  I'll  not  venture  my- 
self with  a  madman.  [Exit. 

Val.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  you  need  not  run  so  fast,  honesty 
will  not  overtake  you.  — Ha!  ha!  ha!  the  rogue  found 
me  out  to  be  in  forma  pauperis  presently." 

Sir  Samp.  Oons!  what  a  vexation  is  here!  I  know 
not  what  to  do  or  say,  or  which  way  to  go.  loi 

Val.  Who's  that,  that's  out  of  his  way!  I  am  Truth, 
and  can  set  him  right.  —  Hark  ye,  friend,  the  straight 
road  is  the  worst  way  you  can  go:  he  that  follows  his 
nose  always,  will  very  often  be  led  into  a  stink.  —  Pro- 
batum  est.  —  But  what  are  you  for,  religion  or  politics? 
There's  a  couple  of  topics  for  you,  no  more  like  one 
another  than  oil  and  vinegar;  and  yet  those  two  beaten 
together  by  a  state-cook,  make  sauce  for  the  whole 
nation.  no 


224  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  iv 

Sir  Samp.  What  the  devil  had  I  to  do,  ever  to  beget 
sons?     Why  did  I  ever  marry? 

Val.  Because  thou  wert  a  monster,  old  boy;  the  two 
greatest  monsters  in  the  world  are  a  man  and  a  woman; 
what's  thy  opinion? 

Sir  Samp.  Why,  my  opinion  is  that  those  two  mon- 
sters joined  together,  make  a  yet  greater,  that's  a  man 
and  his  wife. 

Val.  Aha,  old  truepenny!  sayest  thou  so?  Thou 
hast  nicked  it.  —  But  it's  wonderful  strange,  Jeremy. 

Jer.   What  is,  sir?  121 

Val.  That  grey  hairs  should  cover  a  green  head,  and 
I  make  a  fool  of  my  father.  —  What's  here!  Erra  Pater, "^ 
or  a  bearded  Sibyl?  If  Prophecy  comes,  Truth  must 
give   place.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  III 

An  Ante-room  at  Valentine's  Lodgings 

Enter  Sir  Sampson,  Scandal,  Foresight,  Mrs.  Fore- 
sight, and  Mrs.  Frail 

Fore.  What  says  he?  What,  did  he  prophesy?  —  Ha, 
Sir  Sampson,  bless  us!  how  are  we? 

Sir  Samp.  Are  we!  A  pox  o' your  prognostication  — 
why,  we  are  fools  as  we  use  to  be.  —  Oons,  that  you 
could  not  foresee  that  the  moon  would  predominate,  and 
my  son  be  mad!  —  Where's  your  oppositions,  your  trines, 
and  your  quadrates?  "  —  What  did  your  Cardan "  and 
your  Ptolemy  tell  you?  your  Messahalah  and  your 
Longomontanus,"  your  harmony  of  chiromancy"  with 
astrology?  Ah!  pox  on't,  that  I  that  know  the  world,  [10 
and  men  and  manners,  that  don't  beheve  a  syllable  in 
the  sky  and  stars,  and  suns,  and  almanacs,  and  trash, 
should  be  directed  by  a  dreamer,  an  omen-hunter,  and 
defer  business  in  expectation  of  a  lucky  hour!    when, 


SCENE  III]  LOVE   FOR    LOVE  225 

body  o'  me,  there  never  was  a  lucky  hour  after  the  first 
opportunity.  [Exit  Sir  Sampson. 

Fore.  Ah,  Sir  Sampson,  Heaven  help  your  head! 
This  is  none  of  your  lucky  hour!  Nemo  omnibus 
horis  sapit.''  What,  is  he  gone,  and  in  contempt  of 
science?  Ill  stars  and  unconvertible  ignorance  attend 
him!  21 

Scan.  You  must  excuse  his  passion,  Mr.  Foresight, 
for  he  has  been  heartily  vexed.  —  His  son  is  non  compos 
mentis,  and  thereby  incapable  of  making  any  conveyance 
in  law,  so  that  all  his  measures  are  disappointed. 

Fore.   Ha!     Say  you  so? 

Mrs.  Frail.  [Aside  to  Mrs.  Foresight.]  What,  has 
my  sea-lover  lost  his  anchor  of  hope  then? 

Mrs.  Fore.    Oh,  sister,  what  will  you  do  with  him? 

Mrs.  Frail.  Do  with  him!  Send  him  to  sea  again  in 
the  next  foul  weather.  —  He's  used  to  an  inconstant 
element,  and  won't  be  surprised  to  see  the  tide  turned.  32 

Fore.   Wherein  was  I  mistaken,  not  to  foresee  this? 

[Considers. 

Scan.  [Aside  to  Mrs.  Yo^tsiGYiT.]  Madam,  you  and  I 
can  tell  him  something  else  that  he  did  not  foresee,  and 
more  particularly  relating  to  his  own  fortune. 

Mrs.  Fore.  [Aside  to  Scandal.]  What  do  you  mean? 
I  don't  understand  you. 

Scan.  Hush,  softly  —  the  pleasures  of  last  night,  my 
dear!    too  considerable  to  be  forgot  so  soon.  40 

Mrs.  Fore.  Last  night!  and  what  would  your  impu- 
dence infer  from  last  night!  Last  night  was  like  the 
night  before,  I  think. 

Scan.  'Sdeath,  do  you  make  no  difference  between  me 
and  your  husband? 

Mrs.  Fore.  Not  much;  he's  superstitious,  and  you  are 
mad,  in  my  opinion. 

Scan.  You  make  me  mad.  —  You  are  not  serious; 
pray,  recollect  yourself.  49 

Mrs.  Fore.   Oh,  yes,  now  I  remember,  you  were  very 

CONGREVE  —  15 


226  LOVE   FOR    LOVE  [act  iv 

impertinent  and  impudent  —  and  would  have  come  to 
bed  to  me. 

Scan.    And  did  not? 

Mrs.  Fore.  Did  not !  With  what  face  can  you  ask  the 
question? 

Scan.  [Aside.]  This  I  have  heard  of  before,  but 
never  beUeved.  I  have  been  told  she  had  that  admir- 
able quaUty  of  forgetting  to  a  man's  face  in  the  morning 
that  she  had  lain  with  him  all  night,  and  denying  that 
she  had  done  favours  with  more  impudence  than  she 
could  grant  'em.  —  Madam,  I'm  your  humble  servant, 
and  honour  you.  —  [Aloud.]  You  look  pretty  well,  Mr. 
Foresight.  —  How  did  you  rest  last  night?  63 

Fore.  Truly,  Mr.  Scandal,  I  was  so  taken  up  with 
broken  dreams  and  distracted  visions,  that  I  remember 
little. 

Scan.  'Twas  a  very  forgetting  night.  —  But  would 
you  not  talk  with  Valentine?  Perhaps  you  may  under- 
stand him.  I'm  apt  to  believe  there  is  something  mys- 
terious in  his  discourses,  and  sometimes  rather  think 
him  inspired  than  mad.        *  71 

Fore.  You  speak  with  singular  good  judgement,  Mr. 
Scandal,  truly.  —  I  am  inclining  to  your  Turkish  opinion 
in  this  matter,  and  do  reverence  a  man  whom  the  \'ulgar 
think  mad.     Let  us  go  to  him. 

[Exeunt  Foresight  and  Scandal. 

Mrs.  Frail.  Sister,  do  you  stay  with  them;  I'll  find 
out  my  lover,  and  give  him  his  discharge,  and  come  to 
you.  —  0'  my  conscience,  here  he  comes. 

[Exit  Mrs.  Foresight. 

Enter  Ben 

Ben.   All  mad,  I  think.  —  Flesh,  I  believe  all  the  calen- 
tures °  of  the  sea  are  come  ashore,  for  my  part !  80 
Mrs.  Frail.    Mr.  Benjamin  in  choler! 
Ben.   No,  I'm  pleased  well  enough  now  I  have  found 


SCENE  III]  LOVE    FOR   LOVE  22/ 

you.  —  Mess,  I  have  had  such  a  hurricane  upon  your 
account  yonder! 

Mrs.  Frail.    My  account!     Pray,  what's  the  matter? 

Ben.  Why,  father  came  and  found  me  squabbHng  with 
yon  chitty-faced  thing  as  he  would  hay,e  me  marry  —  so 
he  asked  what  was  the  matter.  —  He  asked  in  a  surly  sort 
of  a  way.  —  It  seems  brother  Val  is  gone  mad,  and  so 
that  put'n  into  a  passion:  but  what  did  I  know  that,  [go 
what's  that  to  me?  —  So  he  asked  in  a  surly  sort  of  man- 
ner —  and  gad  I  answered  'en  as  surlily;  what  tho'f  he 
be  my  father?  I  an't  bound  prentice  to  'en:  so,  faith, 
I  told'n  in  plain  terms,  if  I  were  minded  to  marry  I'd 
marry  to  please  myself,  not  him:  and  for  the  young 
woman  that  he  provided  for  me,  I  thought  it  more  fitting 
for  her  to  learn  her  sampler  "  and  make  dirt-pies,  than 
to  look  after  a  husband;  for  my  part  I  was  none  of  her 
man.  —  I  had  another  voyage  to  make,  let  him  take  it 
as  he  will.  loo 

Mrs.  Frail.    So  then,  you  intend  to  go  to  sea  again? 

Ben.  Nay,  nay,  my  mind  run  upon  you  —  but  I 
would  not  tell  him  so  much.  —  So  he  said  he'd  make  my 
heart  ache;  and  if  so  be  that  he  could  get  a  woman  to  his 
mind,  he'd  marry  himself.  Gad,  says  I,  an  you  play  the 
fool  and  marry  at  these  years,  there's  more  danger  of 
your  head's  aching  than  my  heart."  —  He  was  woundy 
angry  when  I  gav'n  that  wipe.  —  He  hadn't  a  word  to 
say,  and  so  I  left'n  and  the  green  girl  together;  mayhap 
the  bee  may  bite,  and  he'll  marry  her  himself;  with  all 
my  heart.  m 

Mrs.  Frail.   And  were  you  this  undutif  ul  and  graceless . 
wretch  to  your  father? 

Ben.  Then  why  was  he  graceless  first?  —  If  I  am  un- 
dutiful  and  graceless,  why  did  he  beget  me  so?  I  did 
not  get  myself. 

Mrs.  Frail.  0  impiety!  How  have  I  been  mistaken! 
What  an  inhuman  merciless  creature  have  I  set  my  heart 
upon!    Oh,  I  am  happy  to  have  discovered  the  shelves 


228  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  iv 

and  quicksands  that  lurk  beneath  that  faithless  smiHng 
face!  121 

Ben.  Hey,  toss?  What's  the  matter  now?  Why,  you 
ben't  angry,  be  you? 

Mrs.  Frail.  OJi,  see  me  no  morel  for  thou  wert  born 
amongst  rocks,  suckled  by  whales,  cradled  in  a  tempest, 
and  whistled  to  by  winds;  and  thou  art  come  forth  with 
fins  and  scales,  and  three  rows  of  teeth,  a  most  outra- 
geous fish  of  prey. 

Ben.  0  Lord,  O  Lord,  she's  mad !  Poor  young  woman ; 
love  has  turned  her  senses,  her  brain  is  quite  overset! 
Welladay,  how  shall  I  do  to  set  her  to  rights?  131 

Mrs.  Frail.  No,  no,  I  am  not  mad,  monster,  I  am 
wise  enough  to  find  you  out.  Hadst  thou  the  impudence 
to  aspire  at  being  a  husband  with  that  stubborn  and  dis- 
obedient temper?  —  You  that  know  not  how  to  submit  to 
a  father,  presume  to  have  a  sufficient  stock  of  duty  to 
undergo  a  wife?  I  should  have  been  finely  fobbed  in- 
deed, very  finely  fobbed.  138 

Ben.  Hark  ye,  forsooth;  if  so  be  that  you  are  in  your 
right  senses,  d'ye  see;  for  aught  as  I  perceive  I'm  like  to 
be  finely  fobbed  —  if  I  have  got  anger  here  upon  your  ac- 
count, and  you  are  tacked  about  already.  —  What  d'ye 
mean,  after  all  your  fair  speeches  and  stroking  my 
cheeks,  and  kissing,  and  hugging  —  what,  would  you 
sheer  off  so?     Would  you,  and  leave  me  aground? 

Mrs.  Frail.  No,  I'll  leave  you  adrift,  and  go  which 
way  you  will. 

Ben.   What,  are  you  false-hearted,  then? 

Mrs.  Frail.    Only  the  wind's  changed.  140 

Ben.  More  shame  for  you  —  the  wind's  changed! 
It's  an  ill  wind  blows  nobody  good  —  mayhap  I  have  a 
good  riddance  on  you,  if  these  be  your  tricks.  What  did 
you  mean  all  this  while,  to  make  a  fool  of  me? 

Mrs.  Frail.    Any  fool  but  a  husband. 

Ben.  Husband!  Gad,  I  would  not  be  your  husband, 
if  you  would  have  me,  now  I  know  your  mind,  tho'f  you 


SCENE  III]  LOVE    FOR   LOVE  229 

had  your  weight  in  gold  and  jewels,  and  tho'f  I  loved 
you  never  so  well. 

Mrs.  Frail.   Why,  canst  thou  love,  porpoise?  159 

Ben.  No  matter  what  I  can  do;  don't  call  names  —  I 
don't  love  you  so  well  as  to  bear  that,  whatever  I  did. 
I'm  glad  you  show  yourself,  mistress.  —  Let  them  marry 
you,  as  don't  know  you  —  gad,  I  know  you  too  well,  by 
sad  experience;  I  believe  he  that  marries  3^ou  will  go 
to  sea  in  a  hen-pecked  frigate  —  I  believe  that,  young 
woman  —  and  mayhap  may  come  to  an  anchor  at  Cuck- 
old's-point;  °  so  there's  a  dash  for  you,  take  it  as  you  will. 
Mayhap  you  may  holla  after  me  when  I  won't  come  to. 

[E.xit. 
Mrs.  Frail.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  no  doubt  on't  — 

[5wg5.]    "  My  true  love  is  gone  to  sea — "  170 

Re-enter  Mrs.  Foresight 

Mrs.  Frail.  O  sister,  had  you  come  a  minute  sooner, 
you  would  have  seen  the  resolution  of  a  lover.  —  Honest 
Tar  and  I  are  parted  —  and  with  the  same  indifference 
that  we  met.  —  O'  my  life,  I  am  half  vexed  at  the  in- 
sensibility of  a  brute  that  I  despised. 

Mrs.  Fore.   What,  then,  he  bore  it  most  heroically? 

Mrs.  Frail.  Most  tyrannically  —  for  you  see  he  has 
got  the  start  of  me;  and  I  the  poor  forsaken  maid  am 
left  complaining  on  the  shore.  But  I'll  tell  you  a  hint 
that  he  has  given  mc;  Sir  Sampson  is  enraged,  and  talks 
desperately  of  committing  matrimony  himself — if  he 
has  a  mind  to  throw  himself  away,  he  can't  do  it  more- 
effectually  than  upon  me,  if  we  could  bring  it  about.    183 

Mrs.  Fore.  Oh,  hang  him,  old  fox!  he's  too  cunning; 
besides,  he  hates  both  you  and  me.  But  I  have  a  proj- 
ect in  my  head  for  you,  and  I  have  gone  a  good  way  to- 
wards it.  I  have  almost  made  a  bargain  with  Jeremy, 
Valentine's  man,  to  sell  his  master  to  us. 

Mrs.  Frail.   Sell  him!    How? 


230  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  iv 

Mrs.  Fore.  Valentine  raves  upon  Angelica,  and  took 
me  for  her,  and  Jeremy  says  will  take  anybody  for  her 
that  he  imposes  on  him.  Now  I  have  promised  him 
mountains,  if  in  one  of  his  mad  fits  he  will  bring  you  to 
him  in  her  stead,  and  get  you  married  together,  and  put 
to  bed  together;  and  after  consummation,  girl,  there's  no 
revoking.  And  if  he  should  recover  his  senses,  he'll  be 
glad  at  least  to  make  you  a  good  settlement.  —  Here  they 
come:  stand  aside  a  little,  and  tell  me  how  you  like  the 
design.  igg 

Enter  Valentine,  Scandal,  Foresight,  and  Jeremy 

Scan.  [To  Jeremy.]  And  have  you  given  your  mas- 
ter a  hint  of  their  plot  upon  him? 

Jer.  Yes,  sir;  he  says  he'll  favour  it,  and  mistake  her 
for  Angelica. 

Scan.    It  may  make  us  sport. 

Fore.    Mercy  on  us!  205 

Val.  Hush!  —  interrupt  me  not:  I'll  whisper  pre- 
diction to  thee,  and  thou  shalt  prophesy.  I  am  Truth, 
and  can  teach  thy  tongue  a  new  trick:  I  have  told  thee 
what's  past  —  now  I'll  tell  what's  to  come.  Dost  thou 
know  what  will  happen  to-morrow?  —  answer  me  not  — 
for  I  will  tell  thee.  To-morrow,  knaves  will  thrive 
through  craft,  and  fools  through  fortune,  and  honesty 
will  go  as  it  did,  frost-nipped  in  a  summer  suit.  Ask  me 
questions  concerning  to-morrow. 

Scan.   Ask  him,  Mr.  Foresight. 

Fore.    Pray,  what  will  be  done  at  court? 

Val.  Scandal  will  tell  you:  I  am  Truth,  I  never  come 
there. 

Fore.   In  the  city?  21Q 

Val.  Oh,  prayers  will  be  said  in  empty  churches,  at 
the  usual  hours.  Yet  you  will  see  such  zealous  faces 
behind  the  counters,  as  if  religion  were  to  be  sold  in  every 
shop.     Oh,  things  will  go  methodically,  in  the  city;   the 


SCENE  III]  LOVE   FOR    LOVE  231 

clocks  will  strike  twelve  at  noon,  and  the  horned  herd 
buzz  in  the  Exchange  at  two."  Husbands  and  wives  will 
drive  distinct  trades,  and  care  and  pleasure  separately 
occupy  the  family.  Coffee-houses  will  be  full  of  smoke 
and  stratagem.  And  the  cropped  prentice,  that  sweeps 
his  master's  shop  in  the  morning,  may,  ten  to  one,  dirty 
his  sheets  before  night.  But  there  are  two  things  [230 
that  you  will  see  very  strange ;  which  are  wanton  wives 
with  their  legs  at  liberty,  and  tame  cuckolds  with 
chains  about  their  necks.  —  But  hold,  I  must  examine 
you  before  I  go  further;  you  look  suspiciously.  Are 
you  a  husband? 

Fore.   I  am  married. 

Val.  Poor  creature!  is  your  wife  of  Covent  Garden 
parish? 

Fore.    No;   St.  Martin's-in-the-fields.  239 

Val.  Alas,  poor  man!  His  eyes  are  sunk,  and  his 
hands  shrivelled;  his  legs  dwindled,  and  his  back  bowed; 
pray,  pray,  for  a  metamorphosis.  Change  thy  shape, 
and  shake  off  age;  get  thee  Medea's  kettle,  and  be 
boiled  anew;  come  forth  with  labouring  callous  hands,  a 
chine  of  steel,  and  Atlas  shoulders.  Let  Taliacotius 
trim  the  calves  of  twenty  chairmen,  and  make  thee  ped- 
estals to  stand  erect  upon,  and  look  matrimony  in  the 
face.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  that  a  man  should  have  a  stomach 
to  a  wedding  supper,  when  the  pigeons  ought  rather  to  be 
laid  to  his  feet,"  ha!   ha!   ha!  250 

Fore.   His  frenzy  is  very  high  now,  Mr.  Scandal. 

Scan.    I  believe  it  is  a  spring-tide. 

Fore.  Very  likely,  truly;  you  understand  these  mat- 
ters —  Mr.  Scandal,  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  confer  with 
you  about  these  things  which  he  has  uttered  —  his  say- 
ings are  very  mysterious  and  hieroglyphical. 

Val.  Oh,  why  would  Angehca  be  absent  from  my  eyes 
so  long? 

Jer.    She's  here,  sir. 

Mrs.  Fore.   Now,  sister.  260 


232  LOVE    FOR    LOVE  [ACT  iv 

Mrs.  Frail.   O  Lord,  what  must  I  say? 

Scan.    Humour  him,  madam,  by  all  means. 

Val.  Where  is  she?  Oh,  I  see  her  —  she  comes 
like  riches,  health,  and  liberty  at  once,  to  a  despair- 
ing, starving,  and  abandoned  wretch.  Oh,  welcome, 
welcome  ! 

Mrs.  Frail.   How  d'ye  sir?   can  I  serve  you?  267 

Val.  Hark  ye  —  I  have  a  secret  to  tell  you  —  Endym- 
ion  and  the  moon  shall  meet  us  upon  Mount  Latmos, 
and  we'll  be  married  in  the  dead  of  night  —  but  say  not  a 
word.  Hymen  shall  put  his  torch  into  a  dark  lantern, 
that  it  may  be  secret;  and  Juno  shall  give  her  peacock 
poppy-water,  that  he  may  fold  his  ogling  tail,  and  Argus's 
hundred  eyes  be  shut,  ha!  Nobody  shall  know  but 
Jeremy. 

Mrs.  Frail.  No,  no,  we'll  keep  it  secret,  it  shall  be  done 
presently.  277 

Val.  The  sooner  the  better.  —  Jeremy,  come  hither  — 
closer  —  that  none  may  overhear  us  —  Jeremy,  I  can  tell 
you  news;  Angelica  is  turned  nun,  and  I  am  turning 
friar,  and  yet  we'll  marry  one  another  in  spite  of  the 
pope.  Get  me  a  cowl  and  beads,  that  I  may  play  my 
part;  for  she'll  meet  me  two  hours  hence  in  black  and 
white,  and  a  long  veil  to  cover  the  project,  and  we  won't 
see  one  another's  faces,  till  we  have  done  something  to 
be  ashamed  of,  and  then  we'll  blush  once  for  all. 


Enter  Tattle  and  Angelica 

Jer.    I'll  take  care,  and  — 

Val.   Whisper. 

Aug.  Nay,  Mr.  Tattle,  if  you  make  love  to  me,  you 
spoil  my  design,  for  I  intend  to  make  you  my  confi- 
dant. 2QI 

Tat.  But,  madam,  to  throw  away  your  person,  such  a 
person,  and  such  a  fortune,  on  a  madman? 


SCENE  III]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  233 

Ang.  I  never  loved  him  till  he  was  mad;  but  don't 
tell  anybody  so. 

Scan.  [Aside.]  How's  this!  Tattle  making  love  to 
Angelica? 

Tat.  Tell,  madam !  alas,  you  don't  know  me  —  I  have 
much  ado  to  tell  your  ladyship  how  long  I  have  been  in 
love  with  you;  but  encouraged  by  the  impossibility  [300 
of  Valentine's  making  any  more  addresses  to  you,  I  have 
ventured  to  declare  the  very  inmost  passion  of  my  heart. 
Oh,  madam,  look  upon  us  both;  there  you  see  the  ruins 
of  a  poor  decayed  creature  —  here  a  complete  and  lively 
figure,  with  youth  and  health,  and  all  his  five  senses  in 
perfection,  madam;  and  to  all  this,  the  most  passionate 
lover  — 

Aug.  Oh,  fie,  for  shame!  hold  your  tongue;  a  pas- 
sionate lover  and  fiye  senses  in  perfection !  When  you 
are  as  mad  as  Valentine,  I'll  believe  you  love  me,  and  the 
maddest  shall  take  me.  311 

Vol.    It  is  enough.  —  Ha,  who's  here? 

Mrs.  Frail.  [Aside  to  Jeremy.]  O  Lord,  her  coming 
will  spoil  all ! 

Jer.  [Aside  to  Mrs.  Frail.]  No,  no,  madam,  he  won't 
know  her;  if  he  should,  I  can  persuade  him. 

Val.  Scandal,  who  are  these?  Foreigners?  If  they 
are,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think.  —  [Whispers.]  Get  away 
all  the  company  but  Angelica,  that  I  may  discover  my 
design  to  her.  320 

Scan.  [Whispers.]  I  will;  I  have  discovered  some- 
thing of  Tattle  that  is  of  a  piece  with  Mrs.  Frail.  He 
courts  Angelica;  if  we  could  contrive  to  couple  'em  to- 
gether; hark  ye. 

Mrs.  Fore.  He  won't  know  you,  cousin,  he  knows 
nobody. 

Fore.  But  he  knows  more  than  anybody.  Oh,  niece, 
he  knows  things  past  and  to  come,  and  all  the  profound 
secrets  of  time.  329 

Tat.   Look  you,  Mr.  Foresight,  it  is  not  my  way  to 


2  34  LOVE    FOR    LOVE  [act  iv 

make  many  words  of  matters,  and  so  I  shan't  say  much; 
but,  in  short,  d'ye  see,  I  will  hold  you  a  hundred  pounds 
now,  that  I  know  more  secrets  than  he. 

Fore.  How!  I  cannot  read  that  knowledge  in  your 
face,  Mr.  Tattle.     Pray,  what  do  you  know? 

Tat.  Why,  d'ye  think  I'll  tell  you,  sir?  Read  it  in 
my  face!  no,  sir,  'tis  written  in  my  heart;  and  safer 
there,  sir,  than  letters  writ  in  juice  of  lemon;  for  no  fire 
can  fetch  it  out.     I  am  no  blab,  sir.  339 

Vol.  [Aside  to  Scandal.]  Acquaint  Jeremy  with  it, 
he  may  easily  bring  it  about.  —  [Aloud.]  They  are 
welcome,  and  I'll  tell  'em  so  myself.  What,  do  you  look 
strange  upon  me?  then  I  must  be  plain.  —  [Coming  up 
to  them.]  I  am  Truth,  and  hate  an  old  acquaintance  with 
a  new  face.  [Scandal  goes  aside  with  Jeremy. 

Tat.    Do  you  know  me,  Valentine? 

Val.    You?   who  are  you?   no,  I  hope  not. 

Tat.    I  am  Jack  Tattle,  your  friend.  348 

Val.  My  friend?  what  to  do?  I  am  no  married  man, 
and  thou  canst  not  lie  with  my  wife;  I  am  very  poor, 
and  thou  canst  not  borrow  money  of  me;  then  what 
employment  have  I  for  a  friend? 

Tat.  Ha !  a  good  open  speaker,  and  not  to  be  trusted 
with  a  secret. 

Ang.    Do  you  know  me,  Valentine? 

Val.    Oh,  very  well. 

Ang.    Who  am  I?  3S7 

Val.  You're  a  woman  —  one  to  whom  Heaven  gave 
beauty,  when  it  grafted  roses  on  a  briar.  You  are  the 
reflection  of  Heaven  in  a  pond,  and  he  that  leaps  at  you 
is  sunk.  You  are  all  white,  a  sheet  of  lovely,  spotless 
paper,  when  you  first  are  born ;  but  you  are  to  be  scrawled 
and  blotted  by  every  goose's  quill.  I  know  you;  for  I 
loved  a  woman,  and  loved  her  so  long,  that  I  found  out 
a  strange  thing;  I  found  out  what  a  woman  was  good 
for. 

Tat.   Aye,  prithee,  what's  that? 


SCENE  III]  LOVE   FOR    LOVE  _  235 

Val.  Why,  to  keep  a  secret. 

Tat.  O  Lord ! 

Val.  Oh,  exceeding  good  to  keep  a  secret :  for  though 
she  should  tell,  yet  she  is  not  to  be  believed.  371 

Tat.  Ha!  good  again,  faith. 

Val.  I  would  have  music.  —  Sing  me  the  song  that  I 
Uke. 


Song 

"T  tell  thee,  Charmion,  could  I  time  retrieve, 
And  could  again  begin  to  love  and  live, 
To  you  I  should  my  earliest  offering  give  ; 

"/  know,  my  eyes  would  lead  my  heart  to  you. 
And  I  should  all  my  vows  and  oaths  renew; 
But  to  be  plain,  I  never  would  be  true.  380 

"For  by  our  weak  and  weary  truth  I  find, 
Love  hates  to  centre  in  a  point  assigned  ; 
But  runs  with  joy  the  circle  of  the  mind : 

"  Then  never  let  us  chain  what  should  be  free. 
But  for  relief  of  either  sex  agree  : 
Since  women  love  to  change,  and  so  do  we." 

Val.    No  more,  for  I  am  melancholy.      [Walks  musing. 

Jer.    [Aside  to  Scandal.]     I'll  do't,  sir. 

Scan.  Mr.  Foresight,  we  had  best  leave  him.  He  may 
grow  outrageous,  and  do  mischief.  390 

Fore.    I  will  be  directed  by  you. 

Jer.  [Aside  to  Mrs.  Frail.]  You'll  meet,  madam? 
I'll  take  care  everything  shall  be  ready. 

Mrs.  Frail.  Thou  shalt  do  what  thou  wilt;  in  short,  I 
will  deny  thee  nothing. 


236  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  iv 

Tat.    [To  Angelica.]     Madam,  shall  I  wait  upon  you? 

Aug.  No,  I'll  stay  with  him;  Mr.  Scandal  will  protect 
me.  —  Aunt,  Mr.  Tattle  desires  you  would  give  him  leave 
to  wait  on  you. 

Tat.  [Aside.]  Pox  on't!  there's  no  coming  off,  now 
she  has  said  that.  —  [Aloud.]  Madam,  will  you  do  me 
the  honour?  402 

Mrs.  Fore.  Mr.  Tattle  might  have  used  less  ceremony. 
[Exeunt  Foresight,  Mrs.  Frail,  Mrs. 
Foresight,  and  Tattle. 

Scan.   Jeremy,  follow  Tattle.  [Exit  Jeremy. 

Ang.  Mr.  Scandal,  I  only  stay  till  my  maid  comes, 
and  because  I  had  a  mind  to  be  rid  of  Mr.  Tattle. 

Scan.  Madam,  I  am  very  glad  that  I  overheard  a 
better  reason,  which  you  gave  to  Mr.  Tattle;  for  his 
impertinence  forced  you  to  acknowledge  a  kindness  for 
Valentine  which  you  denied  to  all  his  sufferings  and  my 
solicitations.  So  I'll  leave  him  to  make  use  of  the  dis- 
covery, and  your  ladyship  to  the  free  confession  of  your 
inclinations.  413 

Ang.  O  Heavens!  You  won't  leave  me  alone  with  a 
madman? 

Scan.  No,  madam,  I  only  leave  a  madman  to  his 
remedy.  [Exit  Scandal. 

Val.  Madam,  you  need  not  be  very  much  afraid,  for  I 
fancy  I  begin  to  come  to  myself. 

Ang.  [Aside.]  Aye,  but  if  I  don't  fit  you,"  I'll  be 
hanged.  421 

Val.  You  see  what  disguises  love  makes  us  put  on: 
gods  have  been  in  counterfeited  shapes  for  the  same 
reason;  and  the  divine  part  of  me,  my  mind,  has  worn 
this  mask  of  madness,  and  this  motley  livery,  only  as  the 
slave  of  love,  and  menial  creature  of  your  beauty. 

Ang.    Mercy  on  me,  how  he  talks!     Poor  Valentine! 

Val.  Nay,  faith,  now  let  us  understand  one  another, 
hypocrisy  apart.  —  The  comedy  draws  toward  an  end, 
and  let  us  think  of  leaving  acting,  and  be  ourselves;  and 


SCENE  III]  LOVE    FOR   LOVE  237 

since  you  have  loved  me,  you  must  own,  I  have  at  length 
deserved  you  should  confess  it.  432 

Ang.  [Sighs.]  I  would  I  had  loved  you !  —  for  Heaven 
knows  I  pity  you;  and  could  I  have  foreseen  the  bad 
effects,  I  would  have  striven ;  but  that's  too  late.     [Sighs. 

Val.  What  bad  effects?  —  what's  too  late?  My  seem- 
ing madness  has  deceived  my  father,  and  procured  me 
time  to  think  of  means  to  reconcile  me  to  him,  and  pre- 
serve the  right  of  my  inheritance  to  his  estate;  which 
otherwise  by  articles"  I  must  this  morning  have  resigned: 
and  this  I  had  informed  you  of  to-day,  but  you  were 
gone,  before  I  knew  you  had  been  here.  442 

Ang.  How!  I  thought  your  love  of  me  had  caused 
this  transport  in  your  soul;  which  it  seems  you  only 
counterfeited,  for  mercenary  ends  and  sordid  interest! 

Val.  Nay,  now  you  do  me  wrong;  for  if  any  interest 
was  considered  it  was  yours;  since  I  thought  I  wanted 
more  than  love  to  make  me  worthy  of  you. 

Ang.  Then  you  thought  me  mercenary.  —  But  how 
am  I  deluded  by  this  interval  of  sense,  to  reason  with  a 
madman!  451 

Val.    Oh,  'tis  barbarous  to  misunderstand  me  longer! 

Enter  Jeremy 

Ang.  Oh,  here's  a  reasonable  creature  —  sure  he  will 
not  have  the  impudence  to  persevere.  —  Come,  Jeremy, 
acknowledge  your  trick,  and  confess  your  master's  mad- 
ness counterfeit. 

Jer.  Counterfeit,  madam!  I'll  maintain  him  to  be  as 
absolutely  and  substantially  mad  as  any  freeholder  in 
Bethlehem;  nay,  he's  as  mad  as  any  projector,  fanatic, 
chemist,"  lover,  or  poet  in  Europe.  460 

Val.    Sirrah,  you  lie!     I  am  not  mad. 

Ang.    Ha!    ha!    ha!     You  see  he  denies  it. 

Jer.  O  Lord,  madam,  did  you  ever  know  any  madman 
mad  enough  to  own  it? 


238  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  iv 

Vol.    Sot,  can't  you  comprehend? 

Aug.    Why,  he  talked  very  sensible  just  now. 

Jer.  Yes,  madam,  he  has  intervals;  but  you  see  he 
begins  to  look  wild  again  now. 

Val.  Why,  you  thick-skulled  rascal,  I  tell  you  the 
farce  is  done,  and  I  will  be  mad  no  longer.       [Beats  him. 

Ang.    Ha!   ha!   ha!     Is  he  mad  or  no,  Jeremy?        471 

Jer.  Partly  I  think  —  for  he  does  not  know  his  own 
mind  two  hours.  —  I'm  sure  I  left  him  just  now  in  the 
humour  to  be  mad;  and  I  think  I  have  not  found  him 
very  quiet  at  this  present!  —  [Knocking  at  the  door.] 
Who's  there? 

Val.  Go  see,  you  sot.  —  [Exit  Jeremy.]  I'm  very  glad 
that  I  can  move  your  mirth,  though  not  your  compassion. 

Ang.  I  did  not  think  you  had  apprehension  enough 
to  be  exceptions  ;  but  madmen  show  themselves  [480  f 
most,  by  over-pretending  to  a  sound  understanding;  as 
drunken  men  do  by  overacting  sobriety.  I  was  half- 
inclining  to  believe  you,  till  I  accidentally  touched  upon 
your  tender  part:  but  now  you  have  restored  me  to 
my  former  opinion  and  compassion. 

Re-enter  Jeremy 

Jer.  Sir,  your  father  has  sent  to  know  if  you  are  any 
better  yet.  —  Will  you  please  to  be  mad,  sir,  or  how? 

Val.  Stupidity!  you  know  the  penalty  of  all  I'm 
worth  must  pay  for  the  confession  of  my  senses;  I'm 
mad,  and  will  be  mad  to  everybody  but  this  lady.   490 

Jer.  So.  —  Just  the  very  backside  of  truth.  —  But 
lying  is  a  figure  in  speech,  that  interlards  the  greatest 
part  of  my  conversation.  —  Madam,  your  ladyship's 
woman.  [Exit. 

Enter  Jenny 

Ang.    Well,  have  you  been  there?  —  Come  hither. 
Jen.    [Aside  to  Angelica.]     Yes,  madam,  Sir  Sampson 
will  wait  upon  you  presently.  497 


SCENE  111]  LOVE    FOR    LOVK  239 

]'al.    You  are  not  leaving  me  in  this  uncertainty? 

Ang.  Would  anything  but  a  madman  complain  of  un- 
certainty? Uncertainty  and  expectation  are  the  joys 
of  life.  Security  is  an  insipid  thing,  and  the  overtaking 
and  possessing  of  a  wish  discovers  the  folly  of  the  chase. 
Never  let  us  know  one  another  better:  for  the  pleasure 
of  a  masquerade  is  done,  when  we  come  to  show  our 
faces;  but  I'll  tell  you  two  things  before  I  leave  you;  I 
am  not  the  fool  you  take  me  for;  and  you  are  mad,  and 
don't  know  it.  [Exeunt  Angelica  and  Jenny. 

Val.  From  a  riddle  you  can  expect  nothing  but  a 
riddle.  There's  my  instruction,  and  the  moral  of  my 
lesson.  510 

Re-enter  Jeremy 

Jer.  What,  is  the  lady  gone  again,  sir?  I  hope  you 
understood  one  another  before  she  went? 

Val.  Understood!  She  is  harder  to  be  understood 
than  a  piece  of  Egyptian  antiquity,  or  an  Irish  manu- 
script; you  may  pore  till  you  spoil  your  eyes,  and  not 
improve  your  knowledge. 

Jer.  I  have  heard  'em  say,  sir,  they  read  hard  Hebrew 
books  backwards;  maybe  you  begin  to  read  at  the 
wrong  end.  5ig 

Val.  They  say  so  of  a  witch's  prayer:  and  dreams  and 
Dutch  almanacs  are  to  be  understood  by  contraries. 
But  there's  regularity  and  method  in  that ;  she  is  a  medal 
without  a  reverse  or  inscription,  for  indifference  has  both 
sides  alike.  Yet  while  she  does  not  seem  to  hate  me, 
I  will  pursue  her,  and  know  her  if  it  be  possible,  in  spite 
of  the  opinion  of  my  satirical  friend.  Scandal,  who  says  — 

That  women  are  like  tricks  by  sleight  of  hand, 
Which,  to  admire,  we  should  not  understand. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  THE   FIFTH 

Scene  I 

A  Room  in  Foresight's  House 

Enter  Angelica  and  Jenny 

Aug.  Where  is  Sir  Sampson?  Did  you  not  tell  me 
he  would  be  here  before  me? 

Jen.  He's  at  the  great  glass  in  the  dining-room, 
madam,  setting  his  cravat  and  wig. 

Ang.  How!  I'm  glad  on't.  —  If  he  has  a  mind  I 
should  like  Him,  it's  a  sign  he  likes  me;  and  that's  more 
than  half  my  design. 

Jen.    I  hear  him,  madam. 

Ang.  Leave  me;  and  d'ye  hear,  if  Valentine  should 
come  or  send,  I  am  not  to  be  spoken  with.  lo 

[Exit  Jenny. 

Enter  Sir  Sampson 

Sir  Samp.  I  have  not  been  honoured  with  the  com- 
mands of  a  fair  lady,  a  great  while  —  odd,  madam,  you 
have  revived  me!  —  not  since  I  was  five-and-thirty. 

Ang.  Why,  you  have  no  great  reason  to  complain,  Sir 
Sampson;   that  is  not  long  ago. 

Sir  Samp.  Zooks,  but  it  is,  madam,  a  very  great  while 
to  a  man  that  admires  a  fine  woman  as  much  as  I  do. 

Ang.    You're  an  absolute  courtier.  Sir  Sampson.        iS 

Sir  Samp.  Not  at  all,  madam;  odsbud  you  wrong 
me;  I  am  not  so  old  neither  to  be  a  bare  courtier,  only 
a  man  of  words:  odd,  I  have  warm  blood  about  me  yet, 

240 


SCENE  I]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  241 

and  can  serve  a  lady  any  way.  —  Come,  come,  let  me  tell 
you,  you  women  think  a  man  old  too  soon,  faith  and 
troth,  you  do!  —  Come,  don't  despise  fifty;  odd,  fifty,  in 
a  hale  constitution,  is  no  such  contemptible  age. 

Ang.    Fifty  a  contemptible  age!     Not  at  all,  a  very 
fashionable  age,  I  think.  —  I  assure  you,  I  know  very 
considerable  beaux  that  set  a  good  face  upon  fifty  — 
fifty!     I  have  seen  fifty  in  a  side-box,  by  candlelight,  out- 
blossom  five-and-twenty.  30 

Sir  Samp.  Outsides,  outsides;  a  pize  take  'em,  mere 
outsides!  Hang  your  side-box  beaux!  No,  I'm  none  of 
those,  none  of  your  forced  trees,  that  pretend  to  blossom 
in  the  fall,  and  bud  when  they  should  bring  forth  fruit; 
I  am  of  a  long-lived  race,  and  inherit  vigour:  none  of 
my  ancestors  married  till  fifty;  yet  they  begot  sons  and 
daughters  till  fourscore;  I  am  of  your  patriarchs,  I,  a 
branch  of  one  of  your  antediluvian  families,  fellows  that 
the  flood  could  not  wash  away.  Well,  madam,  what  are 
your  commands?  Has  any  young  rogue  affronted  you, 
and  shall  I  cut  his  throat?   or  —  41 

Ang.  No,  Sir  Sampson,  I  have  no  quarrel  upon  my 
hands  —  I  have  more  occasion  for  your  conduct  than 
your  courage  at  this  time.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I'm 
weary  of  living  single,  and  want  a  husband. 

Sir  Samp.  Odsbud,  and  'tis  pity  you  should !  —  [Aside.] 
Odd,  would  she  would  like  me,  then  I  should  hamper 
my  young  rogues:  odd,  would  she  would;  faith  and 
troth,  she's  deviUsh  handsome!  —  [Aloud.]  Madam,  you 
deserve  a  good  husband,  and  'twere  pity  you  should  be 
thrown  away  upon  any  of  these  young  idle  rogues  about 
the  town.  Odd,  there's  ne'er  a  young  fellow  worth  hang- 
ing !  —  that  is,  a  very  young  fellow.  Pize  on  'em !  they 
never  think  beforehand  of  anything;  and  if  they  commit 
matrimony,  'tis  as  they  commit  murder;  out  of  a  frolic, 
and  are  ready  to  hang  themselves,  or  to  be  hanged  by  the 
law,  the  next  morning:  odso,  have  a  care,  madam.       57 

Ang.    Therefore  I  ask  your  advice,  Sir  Sampson:    I 

CONGREVE 1 6 


242  LOVE   FOR    LOVE  [act  v 

have  fortune  enough  to  make  any  man  easy  that  I  can 
Hke;  if  there  were  such  a  thing  as  a  young  agreeable 
man  with  a  reasonable  stock  of  good  nature  and  sense.  — 
For  I  would  neither  have  an  absolute  wit  nor  a  fool. 

Sir  Samp.  Odd,  you  are  hard  to  please,  madam ;  to 
find  a  young  fellow  that  is  neither  a  wit  in  his  own  eye, 
nor  a  fool  in  the  eye  of  the  world,  is  a  very  hard  task. 
But,  faith  and  troth,  you  speak  very  discreetly;  for  I 
hate  both  a  wit  and  a  fool.  67 

Ang.  She  that  marries  a  fool,  Sir  Sampson,  forfeits  the 
reputation  of  her  honesty  or  understanding:  and  she 
that  marries  a  very  witty  man  is  a  slave  to  the  severity 
and  insolent  conduct  of  her  husband.  I  should  like  a 
man  of  wit  for  a  lover,  because  I  would  have  such  a  one 
in  my  power;  but  I  would  no  more  be  his  wife  than  his 
enemy.  For  his  malice  is  not  a  more  terrible  conse- 
quence of  his  aversion  than  his  jealousy  is  of  his  love. 

Sir  Samp.  None  of  old  Foresight's  Sibyls  ever  uttered 
such  a  truth.  Odsbud,  you  have  won  my  heart !  I  hate 
a  wit ;  I  had  a  son  that  was  spoiled  among  'em ;  a  good 
hopeful  lad,  till  he  learned  to  be  a  wit  —  and  might  have 
risen  in  the  state.  —  But  a  pox  on't!  his  wit  run  him  out 
of  his  money,  and  now  his  poverty  has  run  him  out  of  his 
wits.  82 

Ang.  Sir  Sam.pson,  as  your  friend,  I  must  tell  you, 
you  are  very  much  abused  in  that  matter:  he's  no  more 
mad  than  you  are. 

Sir  Samp.    How,  madam !     Would  I  could  prove  it ! 

Ang.  I  can  tell  you  how  that  may  be  done.  —  But  it  is 
a  thing  that  would  make  me  appear  to  be  too  much  con- 
cerned in  your  affairs.  89 

Sir  Samp.  [Aside.]  Odsbud,  I  believe  she  likes  me! 
[Aloiid.]  Ah,  madam,  all  my  aflfairs  are  scarce  worthy 
to  be  laid  at  your  feet;  and  I  wish,  madam,  they  were  in 
a  better  posture,  that  I  might  make  a  more  becoming 
offer  to  a  lady  of  your  incomparable  beauty  and  merit.  — 
If  I  had  Peru  in  one  hand,  and  Mexico  in  t'other,  and  the 


SCENE  I]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  243 

eastern  empire  under  my  feet,  it  would  make  me  only  a 
more  glorious  victim  to  be  offered  at  the  shrine  of  your 
beauty. 

Aug.    Bless  me,  Sir  Sampson,  what's  the  matter? 

Sir  Samp.  Odd,  madam,  I  love  you!  —  and  if  you 
would  take  my  advice  in  a  husband  —  loi 

Ang.  Hold,  hold,  Sir  Sampson.  I  asked  your  advice 
for  a  husband,  and  you  are  giving  me  your  consent.  —  I 
was  indeed  thinking  to  propose  something  like  it  in  jest, 
to  satisfy  you  about  Valentine :  for  if  a  match  were  seem- 
ingly carried  on  between  you  and  me,  it  would  oblige 
him  to  throw  off  his  disguise  of  m.adness,  in  apprehen- 
sion of  losing  me :  for  you  know  he  has  long  pretended  a 
passion  for  me.  109 

Sir  Samp.  Gadzooks,  a  most  ingenious  contrivance! 
if  we  were  to  go  through  with  it.  But  why  must  the 
match  only  be  seemingly  carried  on?  —  Odd,  let  it  be  a 
real  contract. 

Ang.  Oh,  fie.  Sir  Sampson!  What  would  the  world 
say? 

Sir  Samp.  Say!  They  would  say  you  were  a  wise 
woman  and  I  a  happy  man.  Odd,  madam,  I'll  love  you 
as  long  as  I  live,  and  leave  you  a  good  jointure  when  I 
die.  *       119 

Ang.  Aye;  but  that  is  not  in  your  power.  Sir  Samp- 
son; for  when  Valentine  confesses  himself  in  his  senses, 
he  must  make  over  his  inheritance  to  his  younger  brother. 

Sir  Samp.  Odd,  you're  cunning,  a  wary  baggage! 
faith  and  troth,  I  like  you  the  better.  —  But,  I  warrant 
you,  I  have  a  proviso  in  the  obligation  in  favour  of  my- 
self. — Body  o'  me,  I  have  a  trick  to  turn  the  settlement 
upon  issue  male  of  our  two  bodies  begotten.  Odsbud, 
let  us  find  children,  and  I'll  find  an  estate. 

Ang.  Will  you?  Well,  do  you  find  the  estate,  and 
leave  the  other  to  me.  130 

Sir  Samp.  O  rogue!  but  I'll  trust  you.  And  will  you 
consent!   is  it  a  match  then? 


244  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  v 

Ang.  Let  me  consult  my  lawyer  concerning  this  obli- 
gation; and  if  I  find  what  you  propose  practicable,  I'll 
give  you  my  answer. 

Sir  Samp.  With  all  my  heart:  come  in  with  me,  and 
I'll  lend  you  the  bond.  —  You  shall  consult  your  lawyer, 
and  I'll  consult  a  parson.  Odzooks,  I'm  a  young  man: 
odzooks,  I'm  a  young  man,  and  I'll  make  it  appear. 
Odd,  you're  devilish  handsome:  faith  and  troth,  [140 
you're  very  handsome;  and  I'm  very  young,  and  very 
lusty.  Odsbud,  hussy,  you  know  how  to  choose,  and 
so  do  I;  odd,  I  think  we  are  very  well  met.  Give  me 
your  hand,  odd,  let  me  kiss  it;  'tis  as  warm  and  as  soft 
—  as  what?  —  Odd,  as  t'other  hand;  give  me  t'other 
hand,  and  I'll  mumble  'em  and  kiss  'em  till  they  melt 
in  my  mouth. 

Ang.  Hold,  Sir  Sampson:  you're  profuse  of  your 
vigour  before  your  time:  you'll  spend  your  estate  before 
you  come  to  it.  150 

Sir  Samp.  No,  no,  only  give  you  a  rent-roll  of  my 
possessions  —  ha!  baggage!  —  I  warrant  you  for  little 
Sampson:  odd,  Sampson's  a  very  good  name  for  an 
able  fellow:  your  Sampsons  were  strong  dogs  from  the 
beginning. 

Ang:  Have  a  care,  and  don't  overact  your  part.  If 
you  remember,  Sampson,  the  strongest  of  the  name, 
pulled  an  old  house  over  his  head  at  last. 

Sir  Samp.  Say  you  so,  hussy?  Come,  let's  go  then; 
odd,  I  long  to  be  pulling  too,  come  away.  —  Odso,  here's 
somebody  coming.  [Exeunt.     161 

Scene  II 
The  same 

Enter  Tattle  and  Jeremy 

Tat.   Is  not  that  she,  gone  out  just  now? 
Jer.   Aye,  sir,  she's  just  going  to  the  place  of  appoint- 
ment.    Ah,  sir,  if  you  are  not  very  faithful  and  close  in 


SCENE  II]  LOVE    FOR    LOVE  245 

this  business,  you'll  certainly  be  the  death  of  a  person 
that  has  a  most  extraordinary  passion  for  your  honour's 
service. 

Tat.    Aye,  who's  that?  7 

Jer.  Even  my  unworthy  self,  sir.  Sir,  I  have  had  an 
appetite  to  be  fed  with  your  commands  a  great  while; 
and  now,  sir,  my  former  master  having  much  troubled 
the  fountain  of  his  understanding,  it  is  a  very  plausible 
occasion  for  me  to  quench  my  thirst  at  the  spring  of  your 
bounty.  I  thought  I  could  not  recommend  myself  better 
to  you,  sir,  than  by  the  delivery  of  a  great  beauty  and 
fortune  into  your  arms,  whom  I  have  heard  you  sigh  for. 

Tat.  I'll  make  thy  fortune;  say  no  more.  Thou  art  a 
pretty  fellow,  and  canst  carry  a  message  to  a  lady,  in  a 
pretty  soft  kind  of  phrase,  and  with  a  good  persuading 
accent. 

Jer.  Sir,  I  have  the  seeds  "  of  rhetoric  and  oratory  in 
my  head;   I  have  been  at  Cambridge.  21 

Tat.  Aye!  'tis  well  enough  for  a  servant  to  be  bred  at 
a  university;  but  the  education  is  a  little  too  pedantic 
for  a  gentleman.  I  hope  you  are  secret  in  your  nature, 
private,  close,  ha? 

Jer.  O  sir,  for  that,  sir,  'tis  my  chief  talent:  I'm  as 
secret  as  the  head  of  Nilus. 

Tat.    Aye!  who  is  he,  though?  a  privy  counsellor? 

Jer.  [Aside.]  O  ignorance!  —  [Aloud.]  A  cunning 
Egyptian,  sir,  that  with  his  arms  would  overrun  the 
country:  yet  nobody  could  ever  find  out  his  head- 
quarters. 32 

Tat.  Close  dog!  a  good  whoremaster,  I  warrant  him. 
The  time  draws  nigh,  Jeremy.  Angelica  will  be  veiled 
like  a  nun;  and  I  must  be  hooded  like  a  friar;  ha, 
Jeremy? 

Jer.  Aye,  sir,  hooded  like  a  hawk,  to  seize  at  first  sight 
upon  the  quarry.  It  is  the  whim  of  my  master's  madness 
to  be  so  dressed;  and  she  is  so  in  love  with  him,  she'll 
comply  with  anything  to  please  him.     Poor  lady,  I'm 


246  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  v 

sure  she'll  have  reason  to  pray  for  mc,  when  she  finds 
what  a  happy  exchange  she  has  made,  between  a  mad- 
man and  so  accompHshed  a  gentleman.  43 

Tat.  Aye,  faith,  so  she  will,  Jeremy;  you're  a  good 
friend  to  her,  poor  creature.  I  swear  I  do  it  hardly  so 
much  in  consideration  of  myself  as  compassion  to  her. 

Jer.  'Tis  an  act  of  charity,  sir,  to  save  a  fine  woman 
with  thirty  thousand  pounds  from  throwing  herself 
away. 

Tat.  So  'tis,  faith.  I  might  have  saved  several  others 
in  my  time;  but  egad,  I  could  never  find  in  my  heart 
to  marry  anybody  before.  52 

Jer.  Well,  sir,  I'll  go  and  tell  her  my  master  is  coming; 
and  meet  you  in  half  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  with  your  dis- 
guise, at  your  own  lodgings.  You  must  talk  a  little 
madly,  she  won't  distinguish  the  tone  of  your  voice. 

Tat.  No,  no,  let  me  alone  for  a  counterfeit;  I'll  be 
ready  for  you.  [Exit  Jeremy. 

Enter  Miss  Prue 

Prue.  O  Mr.  Tattle,  are  you  here!  I'm  glad  I  have 
found  you;  I  have  been  looking  up  and  down  for  you 
like  anything,  'till  I  am  as  tired  as  anything  in  the  world. 

Tat.  [Aside.]  Oh,  pox,  how  shall  I  get  rid  of  this 
foolish  girl!  63 

Prue.  Oh,  I  have  pure  news,  I  can  tell  you,  pure 
news.  I  must  not  marry  the  seaman  now  —  my  father 
says  so.  Why  won't  you  be  my  husband?  You  say 
you  love  me,  and  you  won't  be  my  husband.  And  I 
know  you  may  be  my  husband  now  if  you  please. 

Tat.    Oh,  fie,  miss!     Who  told  you  so,  child? 

Prue.    Why,  my  father.     I  told  him  that  you  loved  me. 

Tat.  Oh,  fie,  miss!  Why  did  you  do  so?  And  who 
told  you  so,  child  ?  72 

Prue.    Who!     Why,  you  did;   did  not  you? 

Tat.  Oh,  pox!  that  was  yesterday,  miss,  that  was  a 
great  while  ago,  child.     I  have  been  asleep  since;   slept 


SCENE  II]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  247 

a  whole  night,  and  did  not  so  much  as  dream  of  the 
matter. 

Prue.  Pshaw!  Oh,  but  I  dreamt  that  it  was  so, 
though.  79 

Tat.  Aye,  but  your  father  will  tell  you  that  dreams 
come  by  contraries,  child.  Oh,  fie!  what,  we  must  not 
love  one  another  now  —  pshaw,  that  would  be  a  foolish 
thing  indeed!  Fie!  fie!  you're  a  woman  now,  and  must 
think  of  a  new  man  every  morning,  and  forget  him  every 
night.  —  No,  no,  to  marry  is  to  be  a  child  again,  and  play 
with  the  same  rattle  always.  Oh,  fie!  marrying  is  a 
paw  thing. 

Prue.  Well,  but  don't  you  love  me  as  well  as  you  did 
last  night,  then? 

Tat.   No,  no,  child,  you  would  not  have  me.  90 

Prue.   No!     Yes,  but  I  would,  though. 

Tat.  Pshaw!  but  I  tell  you,  you  would  not  —  you 
forget  you're  a  woman,  and  don't  know  your  own  mind. 

Prue.    But  here's  my  father,  and  he  knows  my  mind. 

Enter  Foresight 

Fore.  Oh,  Mr.  Tattle,  your  servant,  you  are  a  close 
man;  but  methinks  your  love  to  my  daughter  was  a 
secret  I  might  have  been  trusted  with;  or  had  you  a 
mind  to  try  if  I  could  discover  it  by  my  art?  Hum,  ah! 
I  think  there  is  something  in  your  physiognomy  that  has 
a  resemblance  of  her;    and  the  girl  is  like  me.  100 

Tat.  And  so  you  would  infer,  that  you  and  I  are  alike? 
—  [Aside.]  What  does  the  old  prig  mean?  I'll  banter 
him,  and  laugh  at  him,  and  leave  him.  —  [Aloud.]  I 
fancy  you  have  a  wrong  notion  of  faces. 

Fore.    How?     What?     A  wrong  notion !     How  so? 

Tat.  In  the  way  of  art:  I  have  some  taking  features, 
not  obvious  to  vulgar  eyes,  that  are  indications  of  a 
sudden  turn  of  good  fortune  in  the  lottery  of  wives;  and 
promise  a  great  beauty  and  great  fortune  reserved  alone 


248  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  v 

for  me,  by  a  private  intrigue  of  destiny,  kept  secret  from 
the  piercing  eye  of  perspicuity ;  from  all  astrologers  and 
the  stars  themselves.  112 

Fore.  How?  I  will  make  it  appear  that  what  you  say 
is  impossible. 

Tat.    Sir,  I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  in  haste  — 

Fore.   For  what? 

Tat.   To  be  married,  sir,  married. 

Fore.    Aye,  but  pray  take  me  along  with  you,"  sir. 

Tat.  No,  sir:  'tis  to  be  done  privately.  I  never  make 
confidants.  120 

Fore.  Well,  but  my  consent,  I  mean.  —  You  won't 
marry  my  daughter  without  my  consent  ? 

Tat.  Who,  I,  sir?  I'm  an  absolute  stranger  to  you 
and  your  daughter,  sir. 

Fore.   Heyday!  what  time  of  the  moon  is  this? 

Tat.  Very  true,  sir,  and  desire  to  continue  so.  I  have 
no  more  love  for  your  daughter  than  I  have  likeness  of 
you;°  and  I  have  a  secret  in  my  heart,  which  you  would 
be  glad  to  know,  and  shan't  know;  and  yet  you  shall 
know  it  too,  and  be  sorry  for  it  afterwards.  I'd  have  [130 
you  to  know,  sir,  that  I  am  as  knowing  as  the  stars,  and 
as  secret  as  the  night.  And  I'm  going  to  be  married  just 
now,  yet  did  not  know  of  it  half  an  hour  ago;  and  the 
lady  stays  for  me,  and  does  not  know  of  it  yet.  There's 
a  mystery  for  you !  —  I  know  you  love  to  untie  difficulties 

—  or  if  you  can't  solve  this,  stay  here  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  and  I'll  come  and  explain  it  to  you.  [Exit. 

Prue.  0  father,  why  will  you  let  him  go?  Won't  you 
make  him  to  be  my  husband? 

Fore.    Mercy  on  us!     What  do  these  lunacies  portend? 

—  Alas !  he's  mad,  child,  stark  wild.  141 
Prue.    What,  and  must  not  I  have  e'er  a  husband 

then?  What,  must  I  go  to  bed  to  nurse  again,  and  be 
a  child  as  long  as  she's  an  old  woman?  Indeed,  but  I 
won't;  for  now  my  mind  is  set  upon  a  man,  I  will  have 
a  man  some  way  or  other.     Oh!  methinks  I'm  sick  when 


SCENE  II]  LOVE   FOR    LOVE  249 

I  think  of  a  man;  and  if  I  can't  have  one  I  would  go  to 
sleep  all  my  life:  for  when  I'm  awake  it  makes  me  wish 
and  long,  and  I  don't  know  for  what:  and  I'd  rather  be 
always  asleep,  than  sick  with  thinking.  150 

Fore.  Oh,  fearful!  I  think  the  girl's  influenced"  too. 
—  Hussy,  you  shall  have  a  rod.  ,     . 

Prue.  A  fiddle  of  a  rod!  I'll  have  a  husband:  and  if 
you  won't  get  me  one,  I'll  get  one  for  myself.  I'll  marry 
our  Robin  the  butler;  he  says  he  loves  me,  and  he's  a 
handsome  man,  and  shall  be  my  husband:  I  warrant 
he'll  be  my  husband,  and  thank  me  too,  for  he  told  me 
so. 

Enter  Scandal,  Mrs.  Foresight,  and  Nurse 

Fore.  Did  he  so?  I'll  dispatch  him  for  it  presently; 
rogue!  —  Oh,  nurse,  come  hither.  160 

Nurse.    What  is  your  worship's  pleasure? 

Fore.  Here,  take  your  young  mistress,  and  lock  her  up 
presently,  till  farther  orders  from  me.  —  Not  a  word, 
hussy.  Do  what  I  bid  you;  no  reply;  away!  And,  bid 
Robin  make  ready  to  give  an  account  of  his  plate  and 
linen,  d'ye  hear:  begone  when  I  bid  you. 
•     Mrs,  Fore.    What  is  the  matter,  husband? 

Fore.  'Tis  not  convenient  to  tell  you  now.  —  Mr. 
Scandal,  Heaven  keep  us  all  in  our  senses!  —  I  fear  there 
is  a  contagious  frenzy  abroad.     How  does  Valentine? 

Scan.  Oh,  I  hope  he  will  do  well  again  —  I  have  a  mes- 
sage from  him  to  your  niece  Angelica.  172 

Fore.  I  think  she  has  not  returned  since  she  went 
abroad  with  Sir  Sampson.  —  Nurse,  why  are  you  not 
gone?  ,  [Exit  Nurse. 

Enter  Ben 

Mrs.  Fore.  Here's  Mr.  Benjamin;  he  can  tell  us  if  his 
father  be  come  home. 

Ben.  Who,  father?  Aye,  he's  come  home  with  a 
vengeance. 


250  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  v 

Mrs.    Fore.    Why,  what's  the  matter?  i8o 

Ben.    Matter!     Why,  he's  mad. 

Fore.    Mercy  on  us!     I  was  afraid  of  this. 

Ben.  And  there's  the  handsome  young  woman,  she,  as 
they  say,  brother  Val  went  mad  for,  she's  mad  too,  I 
think. 

Fore.  Oh,  my  poor  niece,  my  poor  niece,  is  she  gone 
too?     Well,  I  shall  rim  mad  next. 

Mrs.  Fore.    Well,  but  how  mad?     How  d'ye  mean? 

Ben.  Nay,  I'll  give  you  leave  to  guess:  I'll  undertake 
to  make  a  voyage  to  Antegoa  —  no,  hold,  I  mayn't  say 
so  neither  —  but  I'll  sail  as  far  as  Leghorn,  and  back 
again,  before  you  shall  guess  at  the  matter,  and  do 
nothing  else;  mess,  you  may  take  in  all  the  points  of 
the  compass  and  not  hit  right.  iq4 

Mrs.  Fore.  Your  experiment  will  take  up  a  little  too 
much  time. 

Ben.  Why,  then,  I'll  tell  you:  there's  a  new  wedding 
upon  the  stocks,  and  they  two  are  agoing  to  be  married 
to-night. 

Scan.    Who?  200 

Ben.  Why,  father,  and  —  the  young  woman.  I  can't 
hit  of  her  name. 

Scan.    Angelica? 

Ben.   Aye,  the  same. 

Mrs.  Fore.    Sir  Sampson  and  Angelica:  impossible. 

Ben.    That  may  be  —  but  I'm  sure  it  is  as  I  tell  you. 

Scan.    'Sdeath,  it's  a  jest!     I  can't  believe  it. 

Ben.  Look  you,  friend,  it's  nothing  to  me  whether 
you  beHeve  it  or  no.  What  I  say  is  true,  d'ye  see; 
they  are  married,  or  just  going  to  be  married,  I  know 
not  which.  211 

Fore.   Well,  but  they  are  not  mad,  that  is,  not  lunatic? 

Ben.  I  don't  know  what  you  may  call  madness;  but 
she's  mad  for  a  husband,  and  he's  horn-rnad,  I  think, 
or  they'd  ne'er  make  a  match  together.  —  Here  they 
come. 


SCENE  ii]  LOVE    FOR    LOVE  25 1 

Enter  Sir  Sampson,  Angelica,  Buckram 

Sir  Samp.  Where  is  this  old  soothsayer,  this  uncle 
of  mine  elect? — Aha!  old  Foresight,  Uncle  Foresight, 
wish  me  joy,  Uncle  Foresight,  double  joy,  both  as  uncle 
and  astrologer;  here's  a  conjunction  that  was  not  [220 
foretold  in  all  your  ephemeris.  The  brightest  star  in  the 
blue  firmament  —  is  shot  from  above  in  a  jelly  of  love,  and 
so  forth;  and  I'm  lord  of  the  ascendant.  Odd,  you're  an 
old  fellow,  Foresight  —  uncle,  I  mean;  a  very  old  fellow, 
Uncle  Foresight;  and  yet  you  shall  live  to  dance  at  my 
wedding,  faith  and  troth  you  shall.  Odd,  we'll  have  the 
music  of  the  spheres  for  thee,  old  Lilly,  that  we  will,  and 
thou  shalt  lead  up  a  dance  in  via  lactea ! " 

Fore.  I'm  thunderstruck!  —  You  are  not  married  to 
my  niece?  230 

Sir  Samp.  Not  absolutely  married,  uncle;  but  very 
near  it,  within  a  kiss  of  the  matter,  as  you  see. 

[Kisses  Angelica. 

Aug.  'Tis  very  true,  indeed,  uncle;  I  hope  you'll  be 
my  father,  and  give  me. 

Sir  Samp.  That  he  shall,  or  I'll  burn  his  globes.  Body 
o'  me,  he  shall  be  thy  father,  I'll  make  him  thy  father, 
and  thou  shalt  make  me  a  father,  and  I'll  make  thee  a 
mother,  and  we'll  beget  sons  and  daughters  enough  to 
put  the  weekly  bills  "  out  of  countenance. 

Scan.    Death  and  hell!  where's  Valentine?  [Exit. 

Mrs.  Fore.    This  is  so  surprising  —  241 

Sir  Samp.  How!  What  does  my  aunt  say?  Sur- 
prising, aunt!  not  at  all,  for  a  young  couple  to  make  a 
match  in  winter:  not  at  all.  —  It's  a  plot  to  undermine 
cold  weather,  and  destroy  that  usurper  of  a  bed  called 
a  warming-pan. 

Mrs.  Fore.  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  have  so  much  fire  in 
you.  Sir  Sampson. 

Ben.  Mess,  I  fear  his  fire's  little  better  than  tinder: 
mayhap  it  will  only  serve  to  light  up  a  match  for  [25a 


^52  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  v 

somebody  else.  The  young  woman's  a  handsome  young 
woman,  I  can't  deny  it;  but,  father,  if  I  might  be  your 
pilot  in  this  case,  you  should  not  marry  her.  It's  just 
the  same  thing,  as  if  so  be  you  should  sail  so  far  as  the 
Straits  without  provision. 

Sir  Samp.  Who  gave  you  authority  to  speak,  sirrah? 
To  your  element,  fish!  be  mute,  fish,  and  to  sea!  Rule 
your  helm,  sirrah,  don't  direct  me. 

Ben.  •  Well,  well,  take  you  care  of  your  own  helm,  or 
you  mayn't  keep  your  new  vessel  steady.  260 

Sir  Samp.  Why,  you  impudent  tarpaulin!  sirrah,  do 
you  bring  your  forecastle  jests  upon  your  father?  But  I 
shall  be  even  with  you,  I  won't  give  you  a  groat.  —  Mr. 
Buckram,  is  the  conveyance  so  worded  that  nothing  can 
possibly  descend  to  this  scoundrel?  I  would  not  so  much 
as  have  him  have  the  prospect  of  an  estate;  though 
there  were  no  way  to  come  to  it  but  by  the  north-east 
passage. 

Buck.  Sir,  it  is  drawn  according  to  your  direc- 
tions, there  is  not  the  least  cranny  of  the  law  un- 
stopped. 271 

Ben.  Lawyer,  I  believe  there's  many  a  cranny  and  leak 
unstopped  in  your  conscience.  —  If  so  be  that  one  had  a 
pump  to  your  bosom,  I  believe  we  should  discover  a  foul 
hold.  They  say  a  witch  will  sail  in  a  sieve  —  but  I  be- 
lieve the  devil  would  not  venture  aboard  o'  your  con- 
science.    And  that's  for  you. 

Sir  Samp.  Hold  your  tongue,  sirrah!  —  How  now? 
Who's   here? 

Enter  Tattle  and  Mrs.  Frail 

Mrs.    Frail.    O  sister,  the  most  unlucky  accident! 
Mrs.    Fore.   What's  the  matter?  2S1 

Tat.  Oh,  the  two  most  unfortunate  poor  creatures  in 
the  world  we  are! 

Fore.    Bless  us!     How  so? 


SCENE  II]  LOVE    FOR   LOVE  253 

Mrs.  Frail.  Ah,  Mr.  Tattle  and  I,  poor  Mr.  Tattle 
and  I  are  —  I  can't  speak  it  out. 

Tat.    Nor  I  —  but  poor  Mrs.  Frail  and  I  are  — 

Mrs.  Frail.    Married. 

Mrs.  Fore.    Married!     How? 

Tat.  Suddenly  —  before  we  knew  where  we  were  — 
that  villain  Jeremy,  by  the  help  of  disguises,  tricked  us 
into  one  another.  292 

Fore.  Why,  you  told  me  just  now,  you  went  hence  in 
haste  to  be  married. 

Aug.  But  I  believe  Mr.  Tattle  meant  the  favour  to 
me:   I  thank  him. 

Tat.  I  did,  as  I  hope  to  be  saved,  madam;  my  inten- 
tions were  good.  —  But  this  is  the  most  cruel  thing,  to 
marry  one  does  not  know  how,  nor  why,  nor  wherefore. 
—  The  devil  take  me  if  ever  I  was  so  much  concerned  at 
anything  in  my  life!  301 

Ang.  'Tis  very  unhappy,  if  you  don't  care  for  one 
another. 

Tat.  The  least  in  the  world  —  that  is,  for  my  part;  I 
speak  for  myself.  Gad,  I  never  had  the  least  thought  of 
serious  kindness  —  I  never  liked  anybody  less  in  my  life. 
Poor  woman !  Gad,  I'm  sorry  for  her,  too;  for  I  have  no 
reason  to  hate  her  neither;  but  I  believe  I  shall  lead  her 
a  damned  sort  of  life. 

Mrs.  Fore.  [Aside  to  Mrs.  Frail.]  He's  better  than 
no  husband  at  all  —  though  he's  a  coxcomb.  311 

Mrs.  Frail.  [Aside  to  Mrs.  Foresight.]  Aye,  aye,  it's 
well  it's  no  worse.  —  [Aloud.]  Nay,  for  my  part  I  al- 
ways despised  Mr.  Tattle  of  all  things;  nothing  but  his 
being  my  husband  could  have  made  me  like  him  less. 

Tat.  Look  you  there,  I  thought  as  much!  —  Pox  on't, 
I  wish  we  could  keep  it  secret !  Why,  I  don't  believe  any 
of  this  company  would  speak  of  it. 

Mrs.  Frail.  But,  my  dear,  that's  impossible;  the 
parson  and  that  rogue  Jeremy  will  publish  it.  320 

Tat.   Aye,  my  dear,  so  they  will,  as  you  say. 


254  LOVE    FOR   LOVE  [act  v 

Ang.  Oh,  you'll  agree  very  well  in  a  little  time;  cus- 
tom will  make  it  easy  to  you. 

Tat.  Easy!  Pox  on't!  I  don't  believe  I  shall  sleep 
to-night. 

Sir  Samp.  Sleep,  quotha!  no.  Why,  you  would  not 
sleep  o'  your  wedding  night!  I'm  an  older  fellow  than 
you,  and  don't  mean  to  sleep.  328 

Ben.  Why,  there's  another  match  now,  as  tho'f  a 
couple  of  privateers  were  looking  for  a  prize,  and  should 
fall  foul  of  one  another.  I'm  sorry  for  the  young  man 
with  all  my  heart.  Look  you,  friend,  if  I  may  advise  you, 
when  she's  going  —  for  that  you  must  expect,  I  have 
experience  of  her  —  when  she's  going,  let  her  go.  For 
no  matrimony  is  tough  enough  to  hold  her,  and  if  she 
can't  drag  her  anchor  along  with  her,  she'll  break  her 
cable,  I  can  tell  you  that.  —  Who's  here?  The  mad- 
man! 

Enter  Valentine,  Scandal,  and  Jeremy 

Val.  No;  here's  the  fool;  and,  if  occasion  be,  I'll 
give  it  under  my  hand.  340 

Sir  Samp.    How  now  ! 

Val.  Sir,  I'm  come  to  acknowledge  my  errors,  and 
ask  your  pardon. 

Sir  Samp.  What,  have  you  found  your  senses  at  last 
then?  in  good  time,  sir. 

Val.    You  were  abused,  sir,  I  never  was  distracted. 

Fore.    How,  not  mad!    Mr.  Scandal? 

Scan.  No,  really,  sir;  I'm  his  witness,  it  was  all 
counterfeit. 

V^al.  I  thought  I  had  reasons.  —  But  it  was  a  poor 
contrivance;    the  effect  has  shown  it  such.  351 

Sir  Samp.  Contrivance!  What,  to  cheat  me?  to 
cheat  your  father?     Sirrah,  could  you  hope  to  prosper  ? 

Val.  Indeed,  I  thought,  sir,  when  the  father  endeav- 
oured to  undo  the  son,  it  was  a  reasonable  return  of 
nature. 


SCEXK  II]  LOVE    FOR    LOVE  255 

Sir  Samp.  Very  good,  sir! — ^  Mr.  Buckram,  are  you 
ready?  —  [To  Valentine.]  Come,  sir,  will  you  sign 
and  seal? 

Val.  If  you  please,  sir;  but  first  I  would  ask  this  lady 
one  question.  361 

Sir  Samp.  Sir,  you  must  ask  me  leave  first.  —  That 
lady!  no,  sir;  you  shall  ask  that  lady  no  questions,  till 
you  have  asked  her  blessing,  sir;  that  lady  is  to  be  my 
wife. 

Val.  I  have  heard  as  much,  sir;  but  I  would  have  it 
from  her  own  mouth. 

Sir  Samp.  That's  as  much  as  to  say,  I  lie,  sir,  and  you 
don't  believe  what  I  say.  36g 

Val.  Pardon  me,  sir.  But  I  reflect  that  I  very  lately 
counterfeited  madness;  I  don't  know  but  the  frolic  may 
go  round. 

Sir  Samp.  Com.e,  chuck,  satisfy  him,  answer  him.  — 
Come,  come,  Mr.  Buckram,  the  pen  and  ink. 

Buck.    Here  it  is,  sir,  with  the  deed;    all  is  ready. 

[Valentine  goes  to  Angelica. 

Ang.  'Tis  true,  you  have  a  great  while  pretended  love 
to  me;  nay,  what  if  you  were  sincere;  still  you  must 
pardon  me,  if  I  think  my  own  inclinations  have  a  better 
right  to  dispose  of  my  person  than  yours. 

Sir  Samp..  Are  you  answered  now,  sir?  380 

Val.    Yes,  sir. 

Sir  Samp.  Where's  your  plot,  sir;  and  your  contriv- 
ance now,  sir?  Will  you  sign,  sir?  Come,  will  you  sign 
and  seal? 

Val.    With  all  my  heart,  sir. 

Scan.  'Sdeath,  you  are  not  mad  indeed,  to  ruin  your- 
self? 

Val.  I  have  been  disappointed  of  my  only  hope;  and 
he  that  loses  hope  may  part  with  anything.  I  never 
valued  fortune,  but  as  it  was  subservient  to  my  pleasure; 
and  my  only  pleasure  was  to  please  this  lady;  I  have 
made  many  vain  attempts,  and  find  at  last  that  nothing 


256  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  [act  v 

but  my  ruin  can  effect  it;   which,  for  that  reason,  I  will 
sign  to.  —  Give  me  the  paper.  394 

Afig.    [Aside.]     Generous  Valentine! 

Buck.    Here  is  the  deed,  sir. 

Val.  But  where  is  the  bond,  by  which  I  am  obliged  to 
sign  this? 

Buck.    Sir  Sampson,  you  have  it. 

Aug.  No,  I  have  it;  and  I'll  use  it,  as  I  would  every- 
thing that  is  an  enemy  to  Valentine.     [Tears  the  paper. 

Sir  Samp.    How  now!  402 

Val.    Ha! 

Ang.  [To  Valentine.]  Had  I  the  world  to  give  you, 
it  could  not  make  me  worthy  of  so  generous  and  faithful 
a  passion;  here's  my  hand,  my  heart  was  always  yours, 
and  struggled  very  hard  to  make  this  utmost  trial  of  your 
virtue. 

Val.  Between  pleasure  and  amazement,  I  am  lost.  — 
But  on  my  knees  I  take  the  blessing.  410 

Sir  Samp.    Oons,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this? 

Ben.  Mess,  here's  the  wind  changed  again!  Father, 
you  and  I  may  make  a  voyage  together  now. 

Ang.  Well,  Sir  Sampson,  since  I  have  played  you  a 
trick,  I'll  advise  you  how  you  may  avoid  such  another. 
Learn  to  be  a  good  father,  or  you'll  never  get  a  second 
wife.  I  always  loved  your  son,  and  hated  your  unfor- 
giving nature.  I  was  resolved  to  try  him  to  the  utmost; 
I  have  tried  you  too,  and  know  you  both.  You  have  not 
more  faults  than  he  has  virtues;  and  'tis  hardly  more 
pleasure  to  me,  that  I  can  make  him  and  myself  happy, 
than  that  I  can  punish  you.  422 

Val.  If  my  happiness  could  receive  addition,  this  kind 
surprise  would  make  it  double. 

Sir  Samp.    Oons,  you're  a  crocodile!  " 

Fore.    Really,  Sir  Sampson,  this  is  a  sudden  eclipse. 

Sir  Samp.  You're  an  illiterate  old  fool,  and  I'm  an- 
other! [Exit. 

Tat.   If  the  gentleman  is  in  disorder  for  want  of  a  wife, 


SCENE  II]  LOVE   FOR   LOVE  257 

I  can  spare  him  mine.  —  [To  Jeremy.]  Oh,  are  you 
there,  sir?     I'm  indebted  to  you  for  my  happiness. 

Jer.  Sir,  I  ask  you  ten  thousand  pardons;  'twas  an 
arrant  mistake.  —  You  see,  sir,  my  master  was  never 
mad,  or  anything  like  it  —  then  how  could  it  be  other- 
wise? 435 

Val.  Tattle,  I  thank  you,  you  would  have  interposed 
between  me  and  Heaven;  but  Providence  laid  purgatory 
in  your  way  —  you  have  but  justice. 

Scan.  I  hear  the  fiddles  that  Sir  Sampson  provided 
for  his  own  wedding;  methinks  'tis  pity  they  should  not 
be  employed  when  the  match  is  so  much  mended.  — - 
Valentine,  though  it  be  morning,  we  may  have  a  dance. 

Val.  Anything,  my  friend,  everything  that  looks  like 
joy  and  transport.  444 

Scan.    Call  'em,  Jeremy.  [Exit  Jeremy. 

Ang.  I  have  done  dissembling  now,  Valentine;  and  if 
that  coldness  which  I  have  always  worn  before  you 
should  turn  to  an  extreme  fondness,  you  must  not  sus- 
pect it. 

Val.  I'll  prevent  that  suspicion:  for  I  intend  to  dote 
to  that  immoderate  degree  that  your  fondness  shall 
never  distinguish  itself  enough  to  be  taken  notice  of.  If 
ever  you  seem  to  love  too  much,  it  must  be  only  when  I 
can't  love  enough.  454 

Ang.  Have  a  care  of  promises;  you  know  you  are  apt 
to  run  more  in  debt  than  you  are  able  to  pay. 

Val.  Therefore  I  yield  my  body  as  your  prisoner,  and 
make  your  best  on't. 

Re-enter  Jeremy 

Jer.   The  music  stays  for  you.  [A  dance. 

Scan.  Well,  madam,  you  have  done  exemplary  justice 
in  punishing  an  inhuman  father  and  rewarding  a  faithful 
lover:  but  there  is  a  third  good  work,  which  I,  in  par- 
ticular, must  thank  you  for;  I  was  an  infidel  to  your  sex, 

CONGREVE  —  17 


258  LOVE    FOR    LOVE  [act  v 

and  you  have  converted  me.  —  For  now  I  am  convinced 
that  all  women  are  not  like  Fortune,  blind  in  bestowing 
favours,  either  on  those  who  do  not  merit  or  who  do  not 
want  'em.  467 

Aug.  'Tis  an  unreasonable  accusation  that  you  lay 
upon  our  sex:  you  tax  us  with  injustice,  only  to  cover 
your  own  want  of  merit.  You  would  all  have  the  reward 
of  love;  but  few  have  the  constancy  to  stay  till  it  be- 
comes your  due.  Men  are  generally  hypocrites  and 
infidels;  they  pretend  to  worship,  but  have  neither  zeal 
nor  faith:  how  few,  like  Valentine,  would  persevere  even 
to  martyrdom,  and  sacrifice  their  interest  to  their  con- 
stancy !     In  admiring  me  you  misplace  the  novelty : "  — 

The  miracle  to-day  is,  that  we  find 
A  lover  true:   not  that  a  woman's  kind.  478 

[Exeunt  omnes. 


EPILOGUE 

SPOKEN  AT  THE    OPENING   OF    THE  NEW  HOUSE"  BY  MRS. 

BRACEGIRDLE 

Sure  Providence  at  first  designed  this  place 
To  be  the  player's  refuge  in  distress; 
For  still  in  every  storm  they  all  run  hither, 
As  to  a  shed  that  shields  'em  from  the  weather. 
But  thinking  of  this  change  which  last  befel  us, 
It's  like  what  I  have  heard  our  poets  tell  us: 
For  when  behind  our  scenes  their  suits  are  pleading. 
To  help  their  love  sometimes  they  show  their  reading; " 
And  wanting  ready  cash  to  pay  for  hearts. 
They  top  their  learning  on  us  and  their  parts."  lo 

Once  of  philosophers  they  told  us  stories, 
Whom,  as  I  think,  they  called  —  Py  —  Py thagories ; " 
I'm  sure  'tis  some  such  Latin  name  they  give  'em, 
And  we,  who  know  no  better,  must  believe  'em. 
Now  to  these  men  (say  they)  such  souls  were  given, 
That  after  death  ne'er  went  to  hell  nor  heaven. 
But  lived,  I  know  not  how,  in  beasts;   and  then. 
When  many  years  were  passed,  in  men  again. 
Methinks,  we  players  resemble  such  a  soul; 
That  does  from  bodies,  we  from  houses  stroll.  20 

Thus  Aristotle's  soul,  of  old  that  was. 
May  now  be  damned  to  animate  an  ass; 
Oi  in  this  very  house,  for  aught  we  know. 
Is  doing  painful  penance  in  some  beau: 
And  thus,  our  audience,  which  did  once  resort 
To  shining  theatres  to  see  our  sport, 
Now  find  us  tossed  into  a  tennis-court." 

259 


26o  LOVE    FOR   LOVE 

These  walls  but  t'other  day  were  filled  with  noise 
Of  roaring  gamesters,  and  your  damn-me  boys ; " 
Then  bounding  balls  and  rackets  they  encompast,         30 
And  now  they're  filled  with  jests,  and  flights,  and  bom- 
bast! 
I  vow,  I  don't  much  like  this  transmigration, 
Strolling  from  place  to  place  by  circulation; 
Grant,  Heaven,  we  don't  return  to  our  first  station! 
I  know  not  what  these  think,  but,  for  my  part, 
I  can't  reflect  without  an  aching  heart 
How  we  should  end  in  our  original,  a  cart." 
But  we  can't  fear,  since  you're  so  good  to  save  us 
That  you  have  only  set  us  up  —  to  leave  us. 
Thus  from  the  past,  we  hope  for  future  grace  40 

I  beg  it  — 

And  some  here  know  I  have  a  begging  face. 
Then  pray  continue  this  your  kind  behaviour. 
For  a  clear  stage  won't  do,  without  your  favour. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 

Audire  est  operae  pretium,  procedere  recte 

Qui  mcechos  non  vultis,  [ut  omni  parte  laborent].n 

—  HORAT.  Lib.  i.  Sat.  2.  [37-38]. 

[Haec]  metuat,  doti  deprensa.''  —  Ibid.,  Lib.  i.  Sat.  2.  [131]. 


THE    WAY    OF   THE    WORLD 

The  Way  of  the  World  was  first  acted  in  1700  at  the  Theatre 
in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  and  was  not  a  success  despite  the 
brilliancy  of  the  dialogue  and  the  admirable  quality  of  its 
representation  of  the  foppish  manners  of  the  time.  Congreve 
vowed  in  consequence  never  to  write  for  the  stage  again  ;  and 
he  kept  his  word.  The  comedy  was  printed  in  the  same  year 
and  has  since  been  regarded  as  the  author's  masterpiece  in 
comedy. 


262 


COMMENDATORY   VERSES 

To  Mr.  CoNGREVE,  occasioned  by  his  Comedy  called  "The 
Way  of  the  World" 

When  pleasure's  falling  to  the  low  delight, 
In  the  vain  joys  of  the  uncertain  sight ; " 
No  sense  of  wit  when  rude  spectators  know, 
But  in  distorted  gesture,  farce  and  show; 
How  could,  great  author,  your  aspiring  mind 
Dare  to  write  only  to  the  few  refined? 
Yet  though  that  nice  ambition  you  pursue, 
'Tis  not  in  Congreve's  power  to  please  but  few. 
Implicitly  devoted  to  his  fame. 

Well-dressed  barbarians  know  his  awful  name;  lo 

Though  senseless  they're  of  mirth,  but  when  they  laugh, 
As  they  feel  wine,  but  when,  till  drunk,  they  quaff." 
On  you  from  fate  a  lavish  portion  fell 
In  every  way  of  writing  to  excel. 
Your  muse  applause  to  Arabella  "  brings. 
In  notes  as  sweet  as  Arabella  sings. 
Whene'er  you  draw  an  undissembled  woe. 
With  sweet  distress  your  rural  numbers  flow: 
Pastora's  the  complaint  of  every  swain, 
Pastora  still  the  echo  of  the  plain!  20 

Or  if  your  muse  describe,  with  warming  force, 
The  wounded  Frenchman  falling  from  his  horse; 
And  her  own  William  glorious  in  the  strife," 
Bestowing  on  the  prostrate  foe  his  life: 
You  the  great  act  as  generously  rehearse, 
And  all  the  English  fury's  in  your  verse. 
By  your  selected  scenes  and  handsome  choice, 
Ennobled  Comedy  exalts  her  voice; 
You  check  unjust  esteem  and  fond  desire, 

263 


264  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD 

And  teach  to  scorn  what  else  we  should  admire:  30 

The  just  impression  taught  by  you  we  bear, 
The  player  acts  the  world,  the  world  the  player; 
Whom  still  that  world  unjustly  disesteems, 
Though  he  alone  professes  what  he  seems. 
But  when  your  muse  assumes  her  tragic  part, 
She  conquers  and  she  reigns  in  every  heart: 
To  mourn  with  her  men  cheat  their  private  woe, 
And  generous  pity's  all  the  grief  they  know. 
The  widow,  who,  impatient  of  delay. 
From  the  town  joys  must  mask  it  to  the  play,  40 

Joins  with  your  Mourning  Bride's  resistless  moan, 
And  weeps  a  loss  she  slighted  when  her  own: 
You  give  us  torment,  and  you  give  us  ease, 
And  vary  our  afiflictions  as  you  please. 
Is  not  a  heart  so  kind  as  yours  in  pain. 
To  load  your  friends  with  cares  you  only  feign; 
Your  friends  in  grief,  composed  yourself,  to  leave? 
But  'tis  the  only  way  you'll  e'er  deceive. 
Then  still,  great  sir,  your  moving  power  employ, 
To  lull  our  sorrow,  and  correct  our  joy.  50 

Richard  Steele, 

To  the  Right  Honourable 

RALPH,   EARL  OF  MONTAGUE,   ETC. 

My  Lord, 

Whether  the  world  will  arraign  me  of  vanity  or  not, 
that  I  have  presumed  to  dedicate  this  comedy  to  your 
Lordship,  I  am  yet  in  doubt;  though,  it  may  be,  it  is 
some  degree  of  vanity  even  to  doubt  of  it.  One  who  has 
at  any  time  had  the  honour  of  your  Lordship's  conver- 
sation, cannot  be  supposed  to  think  very  meanly  of  that 
which  he  would  prefer  to  your  perusal;  yet  it  were  to 
incur  the  imputation  of  too  much  sufficiency,  to  pretend 
to  such  a  merit  as  might  abide  the  test  of  your  Lordship's 
censure. 


THE    WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  265 

Whatever  value  may  be  wanting  to  this  play  while  yet 
it  is  mine,  will  be  sufficiently  made  up  to  it  when  it  is 
once  become  your  Lordship's;  and  it  is  my  security  that 
I  cannot  have  overrated  it  more  by  my  dedication,  than 
your  Lordship  will  dignify  it  by  your  patronage. 

That  it  succeeded  on  the  stage,  was  almost  beyond  my 
expectation;  for  but  little  of  it  was  prepared  for  that 
general  taste  which  seems  now  to  be  predominant  in  the 
palates  of  our  audience. 

Those  characters  which  are  meant  to  be  ridiculed  in 
most  of  our  comedies,  are  of  fools  so  gross,  that,  in  my 
humble  opinion,  they  should  rather  disturb  than  divert 
the  well-natured  and  reflecting  part  of  an  audience;  they 
are  rather  objects  of  charity  than  contempt;  and  instead 
of  moving  our  mirth,  they  ought  very  often  to  excite 
our  compassion. 

This  reflection  moved  me  to  design  some  characters 
which  should  appear  ridiculous,  not  so  much  through  a 
natural  folly  (which  is  incorrigible,  and  therefore  not 
proper  for  the  stage)  as  through  an  affected  wit;  a  wit, 
which  at  the  same  time  that  it  is  afifected,  is  also  false. 
As  there  is  some  difficulty  in  the  formation  of  a  character 
of  this  nature,  so  there  is  some  hazard  which  attends  the 
progress  of  its  success  upon  the  stage;  for  many  come 
to  a  play  so  overcharged  with  criticism,  that  they  very 
often  let  fly  their  censure,  when  through  their  rashness 
they  have  mistaken  their  aim.  This  I  had  occasion 
lately  to  observe;  for  this  play  had  been  acted  two  or 
three  days,  before  some  of  these  hasty  judges  could  find 
the  leisure  to  distinguish  betwixt  the  character  of  a  Wit- 
woud  and  a  Truewit. 

I  must  beg  your  Lordship's  pardon  for  this  digression 
from  the  true  course  of  this  espistle;  but  that  it  may  not 
seem  altogether  impertinent,  I  beg  that  I  may  plead  the 
occasion  of  it,  in  part  of  that  excuse  of  which  I  stand  in 
need,  for  recommending  this  comedy  to  your  protection. 
It  is  only  by  the  countenance  of  your  Lordship,  and  the 


266  THE    WAY    OF   THE    WORLD 

few  so  qualified,  that  such  who  wroLe  with  care  and  pains 
can  hope  to  be  distinguished;  for  the  prostituted  name 
of  poet  promiscuously  levels  all  that  bear  it. 

Terence,  the  most  correct  writer  in  the  world,  had  a 
Scipio  and  a  Lgelius,  if  not  to  assist  him,  at  least  to  sup- 
port him  in  his  reputation;  and  notwithstanding  his 
extraordinary  merit,  it  may  be  their  countenance  was 
not  more  than  necessary. 

The  purity  of  his  style,  the  delicacy  of  his  turns,  and 
the  justness  of  his  characters,  were  all  of  them  beauties 
which  the  greater  part  of  his  audience  were  incapable  of 
tasting;  some  of  the  coarsest  strokes  of  Plautus,  so 
severely  censured  by  Horace,  were  more  likely  to  affect 
the  multitude ;  such  who  come  with  expectation  to  laugh 
at  the  last  act  of  a  play,  and  are  better  entertained 
with  two  or  three  unseasonable  jests,  than  with  the  artful 
solution  of  the  fable. 

As  Terence  excelled  in  his  performances,  so  had  he 
great  advantages  to  encourage  his  undertakings;  for  he 
built  most  on  the  foundations  of  Menander;  his  plots 
were  generally  modelled,  and  his  characters  ready  drawn 
to  his  hand.  He  copied  Menander,  and  Menander  had 
no  less  light  in  the  formation  of  his  characters,  from  the 
observations  of  Theophrastus,  of  whom  he  was  a  disciple; 
and  Theophrastus,  it  is  known,  was  not  only  the  disciple, 
but  the  immediate  successor,  of  Aristotle,  the  first  and 
greatest  judge  of  poetry.  These  were  great  models  to 
design  by;  and  the  further  advantage  which  Terence 
possessed,  towards  giving  his  plays  the  due  ornaments 
of  purity  of  style  and  justness  of  manners,  was  not  less 
considerable,  from  the  freedom  of  conversation  which 
was  permitted  him  with  Laelius  and  Scipio,  two  of  the 
greatest  and  most  polite  men  of  his  age.  And  indeed 
the  privilege  of  such  a  conversation  is  the  only  certain 
means  of  attaining  to  the  perfection  of  dialogue. 

If  it  has  happened  in  any  part  of  this  comedy,  that  I 
have  gained  a  turn  of  style  or  expression  more  correct, 


THE    WAY    OF   THE    WORLD  267 

or  at  least,  more  corrigible,  than  in  those  which  I  have 
formerly  written,  I  must,  with  equal  pride  and  gratitude, 
ascribe  it  to  honour  of  your  Lordship's  admitting  me 
into  your  conversation,  and  that  of  a  society  where  every- 
body else  was  so  well  worthy  of  you,  in  your  retirement 
last  summer  from  the  town;  for  it  was  immediately  after 
that  this  comedy  was  written.  If  I  have  failed  in  my 
performance,  it  is  only  to  be  regretted,  where  there  were 
so  many,  not  inferior  either  to  a  Scipio  or  a  Laelius,  that 
there  should  be  one  wanting  equal  in  capacity  to  a 
Terence. 

If  I  am  not  mistaken,  poetry  is  almost  the  only  art 
which  has  not  yet  laid  claim  to  your  Lordship's  pat- 
ronage. Architecture  and  painting,  to  the  great  honour 
of  our  country,  have  flourished  under  your  influence  and 
protection.  In  the  meantime,  poetry,  the  eldest  sister 
of  all  arts,  and  parent  of  most,  seems  to  have  resigned 
her  birthright,  by  having  neglected  to  pay  her  duty  to 
your  Lordship,  and  by  permitting  others  of  a  later  ex- 
traction, to  prepossess  that  place  in  your  esteem  to  which 
none  can  pretend  a  better  title.  Poetry,  in  its  nature, 
is  sacred  to  the  good  and  great;  the  relation  between 
them  is  reciprocal,  and  they  are  ever  propitious  to  it. 
It  is  the  privilege  of  poetry  to  address  to  them,  and  it  is 
their  prerogative  alone  to  give  it  protection. 

This  received  maxim  is  a  general  apology  for  all  writers 
who  consecrate  their  labours  to  great  men;  but  I  could 
wish  at  this  time,  that  this  address  were  exempted  from 
the  common  pretence  of  all  dedications;  and  that  I  can 
distinguish  your  Lordship  even  among  the  most  deserv- 
ing, so  this  offering  might  become  remarkable  by  some 
particular  instance  of  respect,  which  should  assure  your 
Lordship,  that  I  am,  with  all  due  sense  of  your  extreme 
worthiness  and  humanity,  my  Lord,  your  Lordship's 
most  obedient,  and  most  obliged  humble  servant, 

WILL.   CONGREVE. 


PROLOGUE 

SPOKEN  BY  MR.  BETTERTON 

Of  those  few  fools  who  with  ill  stars  are  cursed, 

Sure  scribbling  fools,  called  poets,  fare  the  worst: 

For  they're  a  sort  of  fools  which  Fortune  makes, 

And  after  she  has  made  'em  fools,  forsakes. 

With  Nature's  oafs  'tis  quite  a  different  case, 

For  Fortune  favours  all  her  idiot-race. 

In  her  own  nest  the  cuckoo-eggs  we  find. 

O'er  which  she  broods  to  hatch  the  changeling-kind." 

No  portion  for  her  own  she  has  to  spare, 

So  much  she  dotes  on  her  adopted  care.  lo 

Poets  are  bubbles,  by  the  town  drawn  in. 
Suffered  at  first  some  trifiing  stakes  to  win; 
But  what  unequal  hazards  do  they  run ! 
Each  time  they  write  they  venture  all  they've  won : 
The  squire  that's  buttered  still,  is  sure  to  be  undone." 
This  author  heretofore  has  found  your  favour; 
But  pleads  no  merit  from  his  past  behaviour. 
To  build  on  that  might  prove  a  vain  presumption. 
Should  grants,  to  poets  made,  admit  resumption: 
And  in  Parnassus  he  must  lose  his  seat,  20 

If  that  be  found  a  forfeited  estate. 

He  owns  with  toil  he  wrought  the  following  scenes; 
But,  if  they're  naught,  ne'er  spare  him  for  his  pains: 
Damn  him  the  more;   have  no  commiseration    . 
For  dullness  on  mature  deliberation, 
He  swears  he'll  not  resent  one  hissed-off  scene, 
Nor,  like  those  peevish  wits,  his  play  maintain, 

268 


THE    WAY    OF   THE   WORLD  269 

Who,  to  assert  their  sense,  your  taste  arraign. 

Some  plot  we  think  he  has,  and  some  new  thought; 

Some  humour  too,  no  farce;  but  that's  a  fault.  30 

Satire,  he  thinks,  you  ought  not  to  expect; 

For  so  reformed  a  town  who  dares  correct? 

To  please,  this  time,  has  been  his  sole  pretence, 

He'll  not  instruct,  lest  it  should  give  offence. 

Should  he  by  chance  a  knave  or  fool  expose. 

That  hurts  none  here,  sure  here  are  none  of  those: 

In  short,  our  play  shall  (with  your  leave  to  show  it) 

Give  you  one  instance  of  a  passive  poet, 

Who  to  your  judgements  yields  all  resignation; 

So  save  or  damn,  after  your  own  discretion.  40 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

Fainall,  in  love  with  Mrs.  Marwood. 
MiRABELL,  in  love  with  Mrs.  Millamant. 

WiTWOUD, 


^  ,  Followers  of  Mrs.  Millamant. 

Petulant, 

Sir  Wilfull  Witwoud,  Half-brother  to  Witwoud,  and  Nephew 

to  Lady  Wishfort. 

Waitwell,  Servant  to  Mirabell. 

Coachmen,  Dancers,  Footmen,  and  Attendants. 

Lady  Wishfort,  Enemy  to  Mirabell,  for  having  falsely  pretended 

love  to  her. 
Mrs.  Millamant,  a  fine  Lady,  Niece  to  Lady  Wishfort,  and  loves 

Mirabell. 
Mrs.  Marwood,  Friend  to  Mr.  Fainall,  and  likes  Mirabell. 
Mrs.  Fainall,  Daughter  to  Lady  Wishfort,  and  Wife  to  Fainall, 

formerly  Friend  to  Mirabell. 
Foible,  Woman  to  Lady  Wishfort. 
Mincing,  Woman  to  Mrs.  Millamant. 
Betty,  Waiting-maid  at  a  Chocolate-house. 
Peg,  Maid  to  Lady  Wishfort. 


Scene  —  London 
The  time  equal  to  that  of  the  representation 


270 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 

ACT  THE   FIRST 

Scene  I 

A  Chocolate-house 

MiRABELL    and    Fainall    riswg  from    cards.      Betty 

waiting 

Mir.    You  are  a  fortunate  man,  Mr.  Fainall! 

Fain.    Have  we  done? 

Mir.    What  you  please:  I'll  play  on  to  entertain  you. 

Fain.  No,  I'll  give  you  your  revenge  another  time, 
when  you  are  not  so  indifferent;  you  are  thinking  of 
something  else  now,  and  play  too  negligently;  the  cold- 
ness of  a  losing  gamester  lessens  the  pleasure  of  the  win- 
ner. I'd  no  more  play  with  a  man  that  slighted  his  ill 
fortune  than  I'd  make  love  to  a  woman  who  under- 
valued the  loss  of  her  reputation.  lo 

Mir.  You  have  a  taste  extremely  delicate,  and  are  for 
refining  on  your  pleasures. 

Fain.  Prithee,  why  so  reserved?  Something  has  put 
you  out  of  humour. 

Mir.  Not  at  all:  I  happen  to  be  grave  to-day,  and 
you  are  gay;   that's  all. 

Fain.  Confess,  Millamant  and  you  quarrelled  last 
night  after  I  left  you;  my  fair  cousin  has  some  humours 
that  would  tempt  the  patience  of  a  Stoic.  What,  some 
coxcomb  came  in,  and  was  well  received  by  her,  while 
you  were  by?  21 

271 


2/2  THE   WAY    OF   THE   WORLD  [act  I 

Mir.  Witwoud  and  Petulant;  and  what  was  worse, 
her  aunt,  your  wife's  mother,  my  evil  genius;  or  to  sum 
up  all  in  her  own  name,  my  old  Lady  Wishfort  came 
in. 

Fain.  Oh,  there  it  is  then !  She  has  a  lasting  passion 
for  you,  and  with  reason.  —  What,  then  my  wife  was 
there? 

Mir.  Yes,  and  Mrs.  Marwood,  and  three  or  four  more, 
whom  I  never  saw  before.  Seeing  me,  they  all  put  on 
their  grave  faces,  whispered  one  another;  then  com- 
plained aloud  of  the  vapours,  and  after  fell  into  a  pro- 
found silence.  33 

Fain.    They  had  a  mind  to  be  rid  of  you. 

Mir.  For  which  reason  I  resolved  not  to  stir.  At  last 
the  good  old  lady  broke  through  her  painful  taciturnity 
with  an  invective  against  long  visits.  I  would  not  have 
understood  her,  but  Millamant  joining  in  the  argument, 
I  rose,  and,  with  a  constrained  smile,  told  her  I  thought 
nothing  was  so  easy  as  to  know  when  a  visit  began  to  be 
troublesome.  She  reddened,  and  I  withdrew,  without 
expecting  her  reply.  42 

Fain.  You  were  to  blame  to  resent  what  she  spoke 
only  in  compliance  with  her  aunt. 

Mir.  She  is  more  mistress  of  herself  than  to  be  under 
the  necessity  of  such  a  resignation. 

Fain.  What!  though  half  her  fbrtune  depends  upon 
her  marrying  with  my  lady's  approbation? 

Mir.  I  was  then  in  such  a  humour,  that  I  should  have 
been  better  pleased  if  she  had  been  less  discreet.  50 

Fam.  Now,  I  remember,  I  wonder  not  they  were 
weary  of  you;  last  night  was  one  of  their  cabal  nights; 
they  have  'em  three  times  a-week,  and  meet  by  turns  at 
one  another's  apartments,  where  they  come  together 
like  the  coroner's  inquest,  to  sit  upon  the  murdered 
reputations  of  the  week.  You  and  I  are  excluded;  and 
it  was  once  proposed  that  all  the  male  sex  should  be  ex- 
cepted;   but  somebody  moved  that,  to  avoid  scandal, 


SCENE  I]         THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  273 

there  might  be  one  man  of  the  community;  upon  which 
motion  Witwoud  and  Petulant  were  enrolled  members. 

Mir.  And  who  may  have  been  the  foundress  of  this 
sect?  My  Lady  Wishfort,  I  warrant,  who  publishes  her 
detestation  of  mankind;  and  full  of  the  vigour  of  fifty- 
five,  declares  for  a  friend  and  ratafia; "  and  let  posterity 
shift  for  itself,  she'll  breed  no  more. 

Fain.  The  discovery  of  your  sham  addresses  to  her,  to 
conceal  your  love  to  her  niece,  has  provoked  this  separa- 
tion ;  had  you  dissembled  better,  things  might  have  con- 
tinued in  the  state  of  nature."  69 

Mir.  I  did  as  much  as  man  could,  with  any  reasonable 
conscience;  I  proceeded  to  the  very  last  act  of  flattery 
with  her,  and  was  guilty  of  a  song  in  her  commendation. 
Nay,  I  got  a  friend  to  put  her  into  a  lampoon  and  com- 
pliment her  with  the  imputation  of  an  afifair  with  a  young 
fellow,  which  I  carried  so  far,  that  I  told  her  the  mali- 
cious town  took  notice  that  she  was  grown  fat  of  a  sud- 
den; and  when  she  lay  in  of  a  dropsy,  persuaded  her 
she  was  reported  to  be  in  labour.  The  devil's  in't,  if  an 
old  woman  is  to  be  flattered  further,  unless  a  man  should 
endeavour  downright  personally  to  debauch  her;  and 
that  my  virtue  forbade  me.  But  for  the  discovery  of 
this  amour  I  am  indebted  to  your  friend,  or  your  wife's 
friend,  Mrs.  Marwood.  83 

Fain.  What  should  provoke  her  to  be  your  enemy, 
unless  she  has  made  you  advances  which  you  have 
slighted?  Women  do  not  easily  forgive  omissions  of 
that  nature. 

Mir.  She  was  always  civil  to  me  till  of  late.  —  I  con- 
fess I  am  not  one  of  those  coxcombs  who  are  apt  to 
interpret  a  woman's  good  manners  to  her  prejudice,  and 
think  that  she  who  does  not  refuse  'em  everything,  can 
refuse  'em  nothing.  92 

Fain.  You  are  a  gallant  man,  Mirabell;  and  though 
you  may  have  cruelty  enough  not  to  satisfy  a  lady's 
longing,  you  have  too  much  generosity  not  to  be  tender 

CONGREVE  —  18 


274  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  i 

of  her  honour.  Yet  you  speak  with  an  indifference 
which  seems  to  be  affected,  and  confesses  you  are  con- 
scious of  a  negligence. 

Mir.  You  pursue  the  argument  with  a  distrust  that 
seems  to  be  unaffected,  and  confesses  you  are  conscious 
of  a  concern  for  which  the  lady  is  more  indebted  to  you 
than  is  your  wife.  102 

Fain.  Fie,  fie,  friend!  if  you  grow  censorious  I  must 
leave  you.  —  I'll  look  upon  the  gamesters  in  the  next 
room. 

Mir.    Who  are  they? 

Fain.  Petulant  and  Witwoud.  —  [To  Betty.]  Bring 
me  some  chocolate.  [Exit. 

Mir.    Betty,  what  says  your  clock? 

Bet.   Turned  of  the  last  canonical  hour,"  sir.      [Exit. 

Mir.  How  pertinently  the  jade  answers  me !  —  [Look- 
ing on  his  watch.]  —  Ha!  almost  one  o'clock!  —  Oh, 
y'are  come!  "3 

Enter  Footman 

Well,  is  the  grand  affair  over?  You  have  been  some- 
thing tedious. 

Foot.  Sir,  there's  such  coupHng  at  Pancras"  that 
they  stand  behind  one  another,  as  'twere  in  a  country 
dance.  Ours  was  the  last  couple  to  lead  up;  and  no 
hopes  appearing  of  dispatch;  besides,  the  parson  grow- 
ing hoarse,  we  were  afraid  his  lungs  would  have  failed 
before  it  came  to  our  turn;  so  we  drove  round  to  Duke's- 
place;"  and  there  they  were  rivetted  in  a  trice.  122 

Mir.    So,  so,  you  are  sure  they  are  married. 

Foot.    Married  and  bedded,  sir;   I  am  witness. 

Mir.   Have  you  the  certificate? 

Foot.   Here  it  is,  sir. 

Mir.  Has  the  tailor  brought  Waitwell's  clothes  home, 
and  the  new  liveries? 

Foot.    Yes,  sir.  129 


SCENE  II]        THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  275 

Mir.  That's  well.  Do  you  go  home  again,  d'ye  hear, 
and  adjourn  the  consummation  till  further  orders.  Bid 
Waitwell  shake  his  ears,  and  Dame  Partlet"  rustle  up  her 
feathers,  and  meet  me  at  one  o'clock  by  Rosamond's 
Pond,"  that  I  may  see  her  before  she  returns  to  her  lady; 
and  as  you  tender  your  ears  be  secret.  [Exeunt. 


Scene  II 
The  same 
MiRABELL,  Fainall,  and  Betty 

Fain.   Joy  of  your  success,  Mirabell;  you  look  pleased. 

Mir.  Aye;  I  have  been  engaged  in  a  matter  of  some 
sort  of  mirth,  which  is  not  yet  ripe  for  discovery.  I  am 
glad  this  is  not  a  cabal  night.  I  wonder,  Fainall,  that 
you  who  are  married,  and  of  consequence  should  be  dis- 
creet, will  suffer  your  wife  to  be  of  such  a  party. 

Fain.  Faith,  I  am  not  jealous.  Besides,  most  w^ho 
are  engaged  are  women  and  relations;  and  for  the 
men,  they  are  of  a  kind  too  contemptible  to  give 
scandal.  10 

Mir.  I  am  of  another  opinion.  The  greater  the  cox- 
comb, always  the  more  the  scandal:  for  a  woman  who 
is  not  a  fool  can  have  but  one  reason  for  associating 
with  a  man  who  is  one. 

Fain.  Are  you  jealous  as  often  as  you  see  Witwoud 
entertained  by  Millamant? 

Mir.   Of  her  understanding  I  am,  if  not  of  her  person. 

Fain.  You  do  her  wrong;  for,  to  give  her  her  due,  she 
has  wit.  19 

Mir.  She  has  beauty  enough  to  make  any  man  think 
so;  and  complaisance  enough  not  to  contradict  him  who 
shall  tell  her  so. 

Fain.   For  a  passionate  lover,  methinks  you  arc  a 


276  THE   WAY    OF   THE   WORLD  [act  i 

man  somewhat  too  discerning  in  the  failings  of  your 
mistress. 

Mir.  And  for  a  discerning  man,  somewhat  too  pas- 
sionate a  lover;  for  I  like  her  with  all  her  faults;  nay, 
like  her  for  her  faults.  Her  follies  are  so  natural,  or  so 
artful,  that  they  become  her;  and  those  affectations 
which  in  another  woman  would  be  odious,  serve  but  [30 
to  make*her  more  agreeable.  I'll  tell  thee,  Fainall,  she 
once  used  me  with  that  insolence,  that  in  revenge  I  took 
her  to  pieces;  sifted  her,  and  separated  her  failings;  I 
studied  'em,  and  got  'em  by  rote.  The  catalogue  was  so 
large,  that  I  was  not  without  hopes  one  day  or  other  to 
hate  her  heartily:  to  which  end  I  so  used  myself  to  think 
of  'em,  that  at  length,  contrary  to  my  design  and  expecta- 
tion, they  gave  me  every  hour  less  and  less  disturbance; 
till  in  a  few  days  it  became  habitual  to  me  to  remember 
'em  without  being  displeased.  They  are  now  grown  as 
familiar  to  me  as  my  own  frailties;  and  in  all  probability, 
in  a  little  time  longer,  I  shall  like  'em  as  well.  42 

Fain.  Marry  her,  marry  her!  Be  half  as  well  ac- 
quainted with  her  charms,  as  you  are  with  her  defects, 
and  ray  life  on't,  you  are  your  own  man  again. 

Mir.    Say  you  so? 

Fain.  Aye,  aye,  I  have  experience:  I  have  a  wife,  and 
so  forth. 

Enter  Messenger 

Mes.    Is  one  squire  Witwoud  here? 

Bet.    Yes,  what's  your  business?  so 

Mes.  I  have  a  letter  for  him,  from  his  brother  Sir 
Wilfull,  which  I  am  charged  to  deliver  into  his  own 
hands. 

Bet.   He's  in  the  next  room,  friend  —  that  way. 

[Exit  Messenger. 

Mir.  What,  is  the  chief  of  that  noble  family  in  town, 
Sir  Wilfull  Witwoud? 


forty. 


SCENE  II]       THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  277 

Fain.    He  is  expected  to-day.     Do  you  know  him? 

Mir.  I  have  seen  him.  He  promises  to  be  an  extra- 
ordinary person;  I  think  you  have  the  honour  to  be 
related  to  him.  60 

Fain.  Yes;  he  is  half-brother  to  this  Witwoud  by  a 
former  wife,  who  was  sister  to  my  Lady  Wishfort,  my 
wife's  mother.  If  you  marry  Millamant,  you  must  call 
cousins  too. 

Mir.  I  had  rather  be  his  relation  than  his  acquaint- 
ance. 

Fain.  He  comes  to  town  in  order  to  equip  himself  for 
travel. 

Mir.    For  travel !     Why,  the  man  that  I  mean  is  above 

70 

Fain.  No  matter  for  that;  'tis  for  the  honour  of  Eng- 
land, that  all  Europe  should  know  we  have  blockheads 
of  all  ages. 

Mir.  I  wonder  there  is  not  an  act  of  parliament  to 
save  the  credit  of  the  nation,  and  prohibit  the  exporta- 
tion of  fools. 

Fain.  By  no  means;  'tis  better  as  'tis.  'Tis  better  to 
trade  with  a  little  loss,  than  to  be  quite  eaten  up  with 
being  overstocked. 

Mir.  Pray,  are  the  follies  of  this  knight-errant,  and 
those  of  the  squire  his  brother,  anything  related?  81 

Fain.  Not  at  all;  Witwoud  grows  by  the  knight,  like 
a  medlar  grafted  on  a  crab.  One  will  melt  in  your 
mouth,  and  t'other  set  your  teeth  on  edge;  one  is  all 
pulp,  and  the  other  all  core. 

Mir.  So  one  will  be  rotten  before  he  be  ripe,  and  the 
other  will  be  rotten  without  ever  being  ripe  at  all. 

Fain.  Sir  WilfuU  is  an  odd  mixture  of  bashfulness  and 
obstinacy.  —  But  when  he's  drunk  he's  as  loving  as  the 
monster  in  The  Tempest,^  and  much  after  the  same  man- 
ner. To  give  t'other  his  due,  he  has  something  of  good 
nature,  and  does  not  always  want  wit.  02 

Mir.    Not  always:    but  as  often  as  his  memory  fails 


2/8  THE   WAY   OP^   THE   WORLD  [act  i 

him,  and  his  commonplace  of  comparisons."  He  is  a 
fool  with  a  good  memory,  and  some  few  scraps  of  other 
folks'  wit.  He  is  one  whose  conversation  can  never  be 
approved,  yet  it  is  now  and  then  to  be  endured.  He  has 
indeed  one  good  quality,  he  is  not  exceptions;  for  he  so 
passionately  affects  the  reputation  of  understanding  rail- 
lery, that  he  will  construe  an  affront  into  a  jest;  and  call 
downright  rudeness  and  ill  language  satire  and  fire.  loi 
Fain.  If  you  have  a  mind  to  finish  his  picture,  you 
have  an  opportunity  to  do  it  at  full  length.  Behold  the 
original! 

Enter  Witwoud 

Wit.  Afford  me  your  compassion,  my  dears!  Pity 
me,  Fainall!   Mirabell,  pity  me! 

Mir.    I  do,  from  my  soul. 

Fain.   Why,  what's  the  matter? 

Wit.    No  letters  for  me,  Betty? 

Bet.  Did  not  a  messenger  bring  you  one  but  now, 
sir?  i„ 

Wit.   Aye,  but  no  other? 

Bet.    No,  sir. 

Wit.  That's  hard,  that's  very  hard.  — A  messenger! 
a  mule,  a  beast  of  burden!  he  has  brought  me  a  letter 
from  the  fool  my  brother,  as  heavy  as  a  panegyric  in  a 
funeral  sermon,  or  a  copy  of  commendatory  verses  from 
one  poet  to  another:  and  what's  worse,  'tis  as  sure  a 
forerunner  of  the  author,  as  an  epistle  dedicatory. 

Mir.   A  fool,  and  your  brother,  Witwoud!  120 

Wit.  Aye,  aye,  my  half-brother.  My  half-brother  he 
is;   no  nearer,  upon  honour. 

Mir.    Then  'tis  possible  he  may  be  but  half  a  fool. 

Wit.  Good,  good,  Mirabell,  le  drole!  Good,  good; 
hang  him,  don't  let's  talk  of  him.  —  Fainall,  how  does 
your  lady?  Gad,  I  say  anything  in  the  world  to  get 
this  fellow  out  of  my  head.  I  beg  pardon  that  I  should 
ask  a  man  of  pleasure,  and  the  town,  a  question  at  once 


SCENE  II]       THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  279 

so  foreign  and  domestic.  But  I  talk  like  an  old  maid  at  a 
marriage;  I  don't  know  what  I  say:  but  she's  the  best 
woman  in  the  world.  131 

Fain.  'Tis  well  you  don't  know  what  you  say,  or  else 
your  commendation  would  go  near  to  make  me  either 
vain  or  jealous. 

Wit.  No  man  in  town  lives  well  with  a  wife  but  Fain- 
all.  —  Your  judgement,  Mirabell. 

Mir.  You  had  better  step  and  ask  his  wife,  if  you 
would  be  credibly  informed. 

Wit.    Mirabell? 

Mir.   Aye.  140 

Wit.  My  dear,  I  ask  ten  thousand  pardons  —  gad,  I 
have  forgot  what  I  was  going  to  say  to  you! 

Mir.   I  thank  you  heartily,  heartily. 

Wit.  No,  but  prithee  excuse  me:  my  memory  is  such 
a  memory. 

Mir.  Have  a  care  of  such  apologies,  Witwoud;  for  I 
never  knew  a  fool  but  he  affected  to  complain,  either  of 
the  spleen  or  his  memory. 

Fain.   What  have  you  done  with  Petulant? 

Wit.  He's  reckoning  his  money  —  my  money  it  was. 
—  I  have  no  luck  to-day.  151 

Fain.  You  may  allow  him  to  win  of  you  at  play:  for 
you  are  sure  to  be  too  hard  for  him  at  repartee;  since 
you  monopolize  the  wit  that  is  between  you,  the  fortune 
must  be  his  of  course. 

Mir.  I  don't  find  that  Petulant  confesses  the  superi- 
ority of  wit  to  be  your  talent,  Witwoud.  157 

Wit.  Come,  come,  you  are  malicious  now,  and  would 
breed  debates.  —  Petulant's  my  friend,  and  a  very  honest 
fellow,  and  a  very  pretty  fellow,  and  has  a  smattering  — 
faith  and  troth,  a  pretty  deal  of  an  odd  sort  of  a  small 
wit:  nay,  I'll  do  him  justice.  I'm  his  friend,  I  won't 
wrong  him  neither.  —  And  if  he  had  any  judgement  in  the 
world,  he  would  not  Ijc  altogether  contemptible.  Come, 
come,  don't  detract  from  the  merits  of  my  friend. 


28o  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  i 

Fain.  You  don't  take  your  friend  to  be  over-nicely 
bred? 

Wit.  No,  no,  hang  him,  the  rogue  has  no  manners  at 
all,  that  I  must  own:  no  more  breeding  than  a  bum- 
bailiff,  that  I  grant  you  —  'tis  pity,  faith;  the  fellow  has 
fire  and  life.  171 

Mir.    What,  courage? 

Wit.  Hum,  faith  I  don't  know  as  to  that,  I  can't  say 
as  to  that.  Yes,  faith,  in  a  controversy,  he'll  contradict 
anybody. 

Mir.  Though  'twere  a  man  whom  he  feared,  or  a 
woman  whom  he  loved.  177 

Wit.  Well,  well,  he  does  not  always  think  before  he 
speaks  —  we  have  all  our  failings:  you  are  too  hard 
upon  him,  you  are,  faith.  Let  me  excuse  him  —  I  can 
defend  most  of  his  faults,  except  one  or  two:  one  he  has, 
that's  the  truth  on't;  if  he  were  my  brother,  I  could  not 
acquit  him  —  that,  indeed,  I  could  wish  were  other- 
wise. 

Mir.    Aye,  marry,  what's  that,  Witwoud? 

Wit.  O  pardon  me!  —  Expose  the  infirmities  of  my 
friend!  —  No,  my  dear,  excuse  me  there. 

Fain.  What,  I  warrant  he's  unsincere,  or  'tis  some 
such  trifle.  189 

Wit.  No,  no;  what  if  he  be? 'tis  no  matter  for  that,  his 
wit  will  excuse  that:  a  wit  should  no  more  be  sincere, 
than  a  woman  constant;  one  argues  a  decay  of  parts,  as 
t'other  of  beauty. 

Mir.   Maybe  you  think  him  too  positive? 

Wit.  No,  no,  his  being  positive  is  an  incentive  to  argu- 
ment, and  keeps  up  conversation. 

Fain.   Too  illiterate? 

Wit.  That!  that's  his  happiness:  his  want  of  learn- 
ing gives  him  the  more  opportunities  to  show  his  natural 
parts.  200 

Mir.   He  wants  words? 

Wit.   Aye:  but  I  like  him  for  that  now;  for  his  want 


SCENE  II]        THE    WAY    OF   THE    WORLD  28 1 

of  words  gives  me  the  pleasure  very  often  to  explain  his 
meaning. 

Fain.    He's  impudent? 

Wit.    No,  that's  not  it. 

Mir.    Vain? 

Wit.   No. 

Mir.  What!  He  speaks  unseasonable  truths  some- 
times, because  he  has  not  wit  enough  to  invent  an 
evasion?  211 

Wit.  Truths!  ha!  ha!  ha!  No,  no;  since  you  will 
have  it  —  I  mean,  he  never  speaks  truth  at  all  —  that's 
all.  He  will  lie  like  a  chambermaid,  or  a  woman  of 
quahty's  porter.     Now  that  is  a  fault. 

Enter  Coachman 

Coach.    Is  Master  Petulant  here,  mistress? 

Bet.   Yes. 

Coach.  Three  gentlewomen  in  a  coach  would  speak 
with  him. 

Fain.    0  brave  Petulant!  three!  220 

Bet.   I'll  tell  him. 

Coach.  You  must  bring  two  dishes  of  chocolate  and  a 
glass  of  cinnamon-water." 

[Exeunt  Betty  and  Coachman. 

Wit.  That  should  be  for  two  fasting  strumpets,  and  a 
bawd  troubled  with  the  wind.  Now  you  may  know  what 
the  three  are. 

Mir.  You  are  very  free  with  your  friend's  acquaint- 
ance. 

Wit.  Aye,  aye,  friendship  without  freedom  is  as  dull 
as  love  without  enjoyment,  or  wine  without  toasting. 
But  to  tell  you  a  secret,  these  are  trulls  whom  he  allows 
coach-hire,  and  something  more,  by  the  week,  to  call  on 
him  once  a  day  at  public  places.  233 

Mir.   How! 

Wit.    You  shall  see  he  won't  go  to  'em,  because  there's 


282  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  i 

no  more  company  here  to  take  notice  of  him.  — 
Why,  this  is  nothing  to  what  he  used  to  do:  before 
he  found  out  this  way,  I  have  known  him  call  for 
himself. 

Fain.  Call  for  himself!  What  dost  thou  mean?  240 
Wit.  Mean!  Why,  he  would  slip  you  out  of  this 
chocolate-house,"  just  when  you  had  been  talking  to  him 
—  as  soon  as  your  back  was  turned  —  whip  he  was  gone! 
— ■  then  trip  to  his  lodging,  clap  on  a  hood  and  scarf,  and 
a  mask,  slap  into  a  hackney-coach,  and  drive  hither  to  the 
door  again  in  a  trice,  where  he  would  send  in  for  him- 
self; that  I  mean,  call  for  himself,  wait  for  himself;  nay, 
and  what's  more,  not  finding  himself,  sometimes  leave  a 
letter  for  himself. 

Mir.  I  confess  this  is  something  extraordinary.  —  I 
believe  he  waits  for  himself  now,  he  is  so  long  a-coming: 
Oh!    I  ask  his  pardon.  252 

Enter  Petulant  and  Betty 

Bet.    Sir,  the  coach  stays. 

Pet.  Well,  well;  I  come.  —  'Sbud,  a  man  had  as  good 
be  a  professed  midwife  as  a  professed  whoremaster,  at 
this  rate!  To  be  knocked  up  and  raised  at  all  hours,  and 
in  all  places!  Pox  on  'em,  I  won't  come!  —  D'ye  hear, 
tell  'em  I  won't  come  —  let  'em  snivel  and  cry  their 
hearts  out. 

Fain.    You  are  very  cruel.  Petulant.  260 

Pet.  All's  one,  let  it  pass:  I  have  a  humour  to  be 
cruel. 

Mir.  I  hope  they  are  not  persons  of  condition  that 
you  use  at  this  rate. 

Pet.  Condition!  condition's  a  dried  fig,  if  I  am  not  in 
humour!  —  By  this  hand,  if  they  were  your  —  a  —  a  — 
your  what  d'ye-call-'ems  themselves,  they  must  wait 
or  rub  off,  if  I  want  appetite. 

Mir.    What  d'ye-call-'ems !    What  are  they,  Witwoud  ? 


SCENE  II]        THE    WAY    OF    THE    WORLD  283 

Wit.  Empresses,  my  dear:  by  your  what-d'ye-call- 
'ems  he  means  sultana  queens.  271 

Fet.    Aye,  Roxolanas. 

Mir.    Cry  you  mercy! 

Fain.    Witwoud  says  they  are  — • 

Fet.   What  does  he  say  th'  are? 

Wit.    I?     Fine  ladies,  I  say. 

Fet.  Pass  on,  Witwoud.  —  Hark'ee,  by  this  light,  his 
relations:  two  coheiresses  his  cousins,  and  an  old  aunt, 
who  loves  caterwauling  better  than  a  conventicle. 

Wit.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  I  had  a  mind  to  see  how  the 
rogue  would  come  off.  —  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Gad,  I  can't  be 
angry  with  him,  if  he  had  said  they  were  my  mother  and 
my  sisters.  283 

Mir.    No! 

Wit.  No;  the  rogue's  wit  and  readiness  of  invention 
charm  me.     Dear  Petulant ! 

Bet.   They  are  gone,  sir,  in  great  anger. 

Fet.  Enough,  let  'em  trundle.  Anger  helps  com- 
plexion, saves  paint. 

Fain.  This  continence  is  all  dissembled;  this  is  in 
order  to  have  something  to  brag  of  the  next  time  he 
makes  court  to  Millamant,  and  swear  he  has  abandoned 
the  whole  sex  for  her  sake.  293 

Mir.  Have  you  not  left  off  your  impudent  pretensions 
there  yet?  I  shall  cut  your  throat  some  time  or  other, 
Petulant,  about  that  business. 

Fet.  Aye,  aye,  let  that  pass  —  there  are  other  throats 
to  be  cut. 

Mir.    Meaning  mine,  sir? 

Fet.  Not  I  —  I  mean  nobody  —  I  know  nothing: 
but  there  are  uncles  and  nephews  in  the  world  — 
and  they  may  be  rivals.  What,  then!  All's  one  for 
that.  303 

Mir.  How!  hark'ee,  Petulant,  come  hither  —  explain, 
or  I  shall  call  your  interpreter. 

Fet.    Explain!    I  know  nothing.     Why,  you  have  an 


284  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  i 

uncle,  have  you  not,  lately  come  to  town,  and  lodges  by 
my  Lady  Wishfort's? 

Mir.   True. 

Pei.  Why,  that's  enough  —  you  and  he  are  not 
friends;  and  if  he  should  marry  and  have  a  child  you 
may  be  disinherited,  ha?  312 

Mir.    Where  hast  thou  stumbled  upon  all  this  truth? 

Pet.  All's  one  for  that;  why,  then,  say  I  know  some- 
thing. 

Mir.  Come,  thou  art  an  honest  fellow,  Petulant,  and 
shalt  make  love  to  my  mistress,  thou  sha't,  faith.  What 
hast  thou  heard  of  my  uncle? 

Pet.  I?  Nothing,  I.  If  throats  are  to  be  cut,  let 
swords  clash!  snug's  the  word,  I  shrug  and  am  silent.  320 

Mir.  Oh,  raillery,  raillery!  Come,  I  know  thou  art 
in  the  women's  secrets.  —  What,  you're  a  cabalist;  I 
know  you  stayed  at  Millamant's  last  night,  after  I  went. 
Was  there  any  mention  made  of  my  uncle  or  me?  Tell  me. 
If  thou  hadst  but  good  nature  equal  to  thy  wit,  Petulant, 
Tony  Witwoud,  who  is  now  thy  competitor  in  fame,  would 
show  as  dim  by  thee  as  a  dead  whiting's  eye  by  a  pearl  of 
orient ;  he  would  no  more  be  seen  by  thee,  than  Mercury 
is  by  the  sun.     Come,  I'm  sure  thou  wo't  tell  me." 

Pet.  If  I  do,  will  you  grant  me  common  sense  then 
for  the  future?  23^ 

Mir.  Faith,  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  thee,  and  I'll  pray 
that  Heaven  may  grant  it  thee  in  the  meantime. 

Pet.    Well,  hark'ee. 

[MiRABELL  and  Petulant  talk  apart. 

Fain.  Petulant  and  you  both  will  find  Mirabell  as 
warm  a  rival  as  a  lover. 

Wit.  Pshaw!  pshaw!  that  she  laughs  at  Petulant  is 
plain.  And  for  my  part,  but  that  it  is  almost  a  fashion 
to  admire  her,  I  should  —  hark'ee  —  to  tell  you  a  secret, 
but  let  it  go  no  further  —  between  friends,  I  shall  never 
break  my  heart  for  her.  341 

Fain.   How! 


SCENE  II]        THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  285 

Wit.  She's  handsome;  but  she's  a  sort  of  an  uncertain 
woman. 

Fain.    I  thought  you  had  died  for  her. 

Wit.   Umh  — -no  — 

Fain.    She  has  wit. 

Wit.  'Tis  what  she  will  hardly  allow  anybody  else: 
now,  demme,  I  should  hate  that,  if  she  were  as  hand- 
some as  Cleopatra.  Mirabell  is  not  so  sure  of  her  as  he 
thinks  for.  3Si 

Fain.    Why  do  you  think  so? 

Wit.  We  stayed  pretty  late  there  last  night,  and  heard 
something  of  an  uncle  to  Mirabell,  who  is  lately  come 
to  town  —  and  is  between  him  and  the  best  part  of  his 
estate.  Mirabell  and  he  are  at  some  distance,  as  my 
Lady  Wishfort  has  been  told;  and  you  know  she  hates 
Mirabell  worse  than  a  quaker  hates  a  parrot,"  or  than  a 
fishmonger  hates  a  hard  frost."  Whether  this  uncle  has 
seen  Mrs.  Millamant  or  not,  I  cannot  say,  bat  there  were 
items  of  such  a  treaty  being  in  embryo;  and  if  it  should 
come  to  life,  poor  Mirabell  would  be  in  some  sort  unfortu- 
nately fobbed,  i'faith.  363 

Fain.    'Tis  impossible  Millamant  should  hearken  to  it. 

Wit.  Faith,  my  dear,  I  can't  tell;  she's  a  woman,  and 
a  kind  of  humourist. 

Mir.  And  this  is  the  sum  of  what  you  could  collect 
last  night? 

Pet.  The  quintessence.  Maybe  Witwoud  knows  more, 
he  staid  longer.  Besides,  they  never  mind  him;  they 
say  anything  before  him.  371 

Mir.   T  thought  you  had  been  the  greatest  favourite. 

Pet.  Aye,  tete-a-tete,  but  not  in  public,  because  I  make 
remarks. 

Mir.   You  do? 

Pet.  Aye,  aye;  pox,  I'm  malicious,  man!  Now  he's 
soft  you  know;  they  are  not  in  awe  of  him  —  the  fellow's 
well-bred;  he's  what  you  call  a  what-d'ye-call-'em,  a 
fine  gentleman;   but  he's  silly  withal. 


286  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  i 

Mir.  I  thank  you,  I  know  as  much  as  my  curiosity 
requires.  —  Fainall,  are  you  for  the  Mall  ?  "  381 

Fain.    Aye,  I'll  take  a  turn  before  dinner. 

Wit.  Aye,  we'll  all  walk  in  the  Park;  the  ladies  talked 
of  being  there. 

Mir.  I  thought  you  were  obliged  to  watch  for  your 
brother  Sir  Wilfull's  arrival. 

Wit.  No,  no;  he  comes  to  his  aunt's,  my  lady  Wish- 
fort.  Pox  on  him!  I  shall  be  troubled  with  him,  too; 
what  shall  I  do  with  the  fool? 

Pet.  Beg  him  for  his  estate,  that  I  may  beg  you  after- 
wards: and  so  have  but  one  trouble  with  you  both.    3Q1 

Wit.  Oh,  rare  Petulant!  Thou  art  as  quick  as  fire  in 
a  frosty  morning:  thou  shalt  to  the  Mall  with  us,  and 
we'll  be  very  severe. 

Pet.    Enough,  I'm  in  a  humour  to  be  severe. 

Mir.  Are  you?  Pray,  then,  walk  by  yourselves:  let 
not  us  be  accessory  to  your  putting  the  ladies  out  of 
countenance  with  your  senseless  ribaldry,  which  you 
roar  out  aloud  as  often  as  they  pass  by  you;  and  when 
you  have  made  a  handsome  woman  blush,  then  you 
think  you  have  been  severe.  401 

Pet.  What,  what!  Then  let  'em  either  show  their  in- 
nocence by  not  understanding  what  they  hear,  or  else 
show  their  discretion  by  not  hearing  what  they  would 
not  be  thought  to  understand. 

Mir.  But  hast  not  thou  then  sense  enough  to  know 
that  thou  oughtest  to  be  most  ashamed  thyself,  when 
thou  hast  put  another  out  of  countenance? 

Pet.  Not  I,  by  this  hand!  —  I  always  take  blushing 
either  for  a  sign  of  guilt,  or  ill  breeding.  410 

Mir.  I  confess  you  ought  to  think  so.  You  are  in  the 
right,  that  you  may  plead  the  error  of  your  judgement 
in  defence  of  your  practice. 

Where  modesty^ s  ill  manners,  His  hid  fit 

That  impudence  and  malice  pass  for  wit.    [Exeunt. 


ACT  THE   SECOND 

Scene   I 

St.  James's  Park 

Mrs.  Fainall  and  Mrs.  Marwood 

Mrs.  Fain.  Aye,  aye,  dear  Marwood,  if  we  will  be 
happy,  we  must  find  the  means  in  ourselves,  and  among 
ourselves.  Men  are  ever  in  extremes;  either  doting  or 
averse.  While  they  are  lovers,  if  they  have  fire  and 
sense,  their  jealousies  are  insupportable;  and  when  they 
cease  to  love  (we  ought  to  think  at  least)  they  loathe; 
they  look  upon  us  with  horror  and  distaste;  they  meet 
us  like  the  ghosts  of  what  we  were,  and  as  such,  fly  from 
us.  9 

Mrs.  Mar.  True,  'tis  an  unhappy  circumstance  of  life, 
that  love  should  ever  die  before  us;  and  that  the  man  so 
often  should  outlive  the  lover.  But  say  what  you  will, 
'tis  better  to  be  left  than  never  to  have  been  loved.  To 
pass  our  youth  in  dull  indifference,  to  refuse  the  sweets 
of  life  because  they  once  must  leave  us,  is  as  preposterous 
as  to  wish  to  have  been  born  old,  because  we  one  day 
must  be  old.  For  my  part,  my  youth  may  wear  and 
waste,  but  it  shall  never  rust  in  my  possession. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Then  it  seems  you  dissemble  an  aver- 
sion to  mankind,  only  in  compliance  to  my  mother's 
humour?  21 

Mrs.  Mar.  Certainly.  To  be  free;  I  have  no  taste 
of  those  insipid  dry  discourses,  with  which  our  sex  of 
force  must  entertain  themselves,  apart  from  men.     We 

287 


288  THE   WAY    OF   THE   WORLD  [act  ii 

may  affect  endearments  to  each  other,  profess  eternal 
friendships,  and  seem  to  dote  like  lovers;  but  'tis  not  in 
our  natures  long  to  persevere.  Love  will  resume  his 
empire  in  our  breasts;  and  every  heart,  or  soon  or  late, 
receive  and  readmit  him  as  its  lawful  tyrant. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Bless  me,  how  have  I  been  deceived! 
Why,  you  profess  a  libertine.  31 

Mrs.  Mar.  You  see  my  friendship  by  my  freedom. 
Come,  be  as  sincere,  acknowledge  that  your  sentiments 
agree  with  mine. 

Mrs.  Fain.   Never! 

Mrs.  Mar.   You  hate  mankind? 

Mrs.  Fain.   Heartily,  inveterately. 

Mrs.  Mar.   Your  husband? 

Mrs.  Fain.  Most  transcendently; "  aye,  though  I  say 
it,  meritoriously.  40 

Mrs.  Mar.    Give  me  your  hand  upon  it. 

Mrs.  Fain.   There. 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  join  with  you;  what  I  have  said  has 
been  to  try  you. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Is  it  possible?  Dost  thou  hate  those 
vipers,  men? 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  have  done  hating  'em,  and  am  now  come 
to  despise  'em;  the  ne.xt  thing  I  have  to  do,  is  eternally 
to  forget  'em. 

Mrs.  Fain.  There  spoke  the  spirit  of  an  Amazon,  a 
Penthesilea ! "  51 

Mrs.  Mar.  And  yet  I  am  thinking  sometimes  to  carry 
my  aversion  further. 

Mrs.  Fain.    How? 

Mrs.  Mar.  Faith,  by  marrying;  if  I  could  but  find 
one  that  loved  me  very  well,  and  would  be  thoroughly 
sensible  of  ill  usage,  I  think  I  should  do  myself  the 
violence  of  undergoing  the  ceremony. 

Mrs.  Fain.   You  would  not  make  him  a  cuckold? 

Mrs.  Mar.  No;  but  I'd  make  him  believe  I  did,  and 
that's  as  bad.  61 


SCENE  ij         THE   WAY   OF  THE   WORLD  289 

Mrs.  Fain.    Why,  had  not  you  as  good  do  it? 

Mrs.  Mar.  Oh!  if  he  should  ever  discover  it,  he 
would  then  know  the  worst,  and  be  out  of  his  pain;  but 
I  would  have  him  ever  to  continue  upon  the  rack  of  fear 
and  jealousy. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Ingenious  mischief!  would  thou  wert 
married  to  Mirabell. 

Mrs.  Mar.    Would  I  were! 

Mrs.  Fain.    You  change  colour.  70 

Mrs.  Mar.    Because  I  hate  him. 

Mrs.  Fain.  So  do  I;  but  I  can  hear  him  named. 
But  what  reason  have  you  to  hate  him  in  particular? 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  never  loved  him ;  he  is,  and  always  was, 
insufferably  proud. 

Mrs.  Fain.  By  the  reason  you  give  for  your  aversion, 
one  would  think  it  dissembled;  for  you  have  laid  a  fault 
to  his  charge,  of  which  his  enemies  must  acquit  him. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Oh,  then  it  seems  you  are  one  of  his  fa- 
vourable enemies!  Methinks  you  look  a  little  pale,  and 
now  you  flush  again.  81 

Mrs.  Fain.  Do  I?  I  think  I  am  a  little  sick  o'  the 
sudden. 

Mrs.  Mar.   What  ails  you? 

Mrs.  Fain.  My  husband.  Don't  you  see  him?  He 
turned  short  upon  me  unawares,  and  has  almost  over- 
come me. 

Enter  Fainall  and  Mirabell 

Mrs.  Mar.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  He  comes  opportunely  for 
you. 

Mrs.  Fain.  For  you,  for  he  has  brought  Mirabell  with 
him.  Qi 

Fain.    My  dear! 

Mrs.  Fain.    My  soul! 

Fain.   You  don't  look  well  to-day,  child. 

Mrs.  Fain.   D'ye  think  so? 

Mir.   He  is  the  only  man  that  does,  madam. 

CONGREVE —  19 


290  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  ii 

Mrs.  Fain.  The  only  man  that  would  tell  me  so  at 
least;  and  the  only  man  from  whom  I  could  hear  it 
without  mortification. 

Fain.  Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  satisfied  of  your  tenderness ; 
I  know  you  cannot  resent  anything  from  me;  especially 
what  is  an  effect  of  my  concern.  102 

Mrs.  Fain.  Mr.  Mirabell,  my  mother  interrupted  you 
in  a  pleasant  relation  last  night;  I  would  fain  hear  it 
out. 

Mir.  The  persons  concerned  in  that  affair  have  yet  a 
tolerable  reputation.  —  I  am  afraid  Mr.  Fainall  will  be 
censorious.  108 

Mrs.  Fain.  He  has  a  humour  more  prevailing  than  his 
curiosity,  and  will  willingly  dispense  with  the  hearing  of 
one  scandalous  story,  to  avoid  giving  an  occasion  to  make 
another  by  being  seen  to  walk  with  his  wife.  This  way, 
Mr.  Mirabell,  and  I  dare  promise  you  will  oblige  us  both. 
[Exeunt  Mrs.  Fainall  and  Mirabell. 

Fain.  Excellent  creature!  Well,  sure  if  I  should  live 
to  be  rid  of  my  wife,  I  should  be  a  miserable  man. 

Mrs.  Mar.   Aye  I 

Fain.  For  having  only  that  one  hope,  the  accomplish- 
ment of  it,  of  consequence,  must  put  an  end  to  all  my 
hopes;  and  what  a  wretch  is  he  who  must  survive  his 
hopes!  Nothing  remains  when  that  day  comes,  but  to 
sit  down  and  weep  Hke  Alexander,  when  he  wanted  other 
worlds  to  conquer.  122 

Mrs.  Mar.    Will  you  not  follow  'em? 

Fain.    Faith,  I  think  not. 

Mrs.  Mar.   Pray  let  us;  I  have  a  reason. 

Fain.   You  are  not  jealous? 

Mrs.  Mar.    Of  whom? 

Fain.    Of  Mirabell. 

Mrs.  Mar.  If  I  am,  is  it  inconsistent  with  my  love  to 
you  that  I  am  tender  of  your  honour?  130 

Fain.  You  would  intimate,  then,  as  if  there  were  a 
fellow-feeling  between  my  wife  and  him, 


SCENE  1]         THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  291 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  think  she  does  not  hate  him  to  that 
degree  she  would  be  thought. 

Fain.    But  he,  I  fear,  is  too  insensible. 

Mrs.  Mar.    It  may  be  you  are  deceived. 

Fain.   It  may  be  so.     I  do  now  begin  to  apprehend  it. 

Mrs.  Mar.    What? 

Fain.  That  I  have  been  deceived,  madam,  and  you 
are  false.  140 

Mrs.  Mar.   That  I  am  false!     What  mean  you? 

Fain.  To  let  you  know  I  see  through  all  your  little 
arts.  —  Come,  you  both  love  him ;  and  both  have  equally 
dissembled  your  aversion.  Your  mutual  jealousies  of 
one  another  have  made  you  clash  till  you  have  both 
struck  fire.  I  have  seen  the  warm  confession  reddening 
on  your  cheeks,  and  sparkling  from  your  eyes. 

Mrs.  Mar.   You  do  me  wrong.  148 

Fain.  I  do  not.  'Twas  for  my  ease  to  oversee  and 
wilfully  neglect  the  gross  advances  made  him  by  my 
wife;  that  by  permitting  her  to  be  engaged,  I  might 
continue  unsuspected  in  my  pleasures;  and  take  you 
oftener  to  my  arms  in  full  security.  But  could  you  think, 
because  the  nodding  husband  would  not  wake,  that  e'er 
the  watchful  lover  slept? 

Mrs.  Mar.   And  wherewithal  can  you  reproach  me? 

Fain.  With  infidelity,  with  loving  another,  with  love 
of  Mirabell. 

Mrs.  Mar.  'Tis  false!  I  challenge  you  to  show  an 
instance  that  can  confirm  your  groundless  accusation. 
I  hate  him.  161 

Fain.  And  wherefore  do  you  hate  him?  He  is  insen- 
sible, and  your  resentment  follows  his  neglect.  An  in- 
stance! the  injuries  you  have  done  him  are  a  proof: 
your  interposing  in  his  love.  What  cause  had  you  to 
make  discoveries  of  his  pretended  passion?  To  unde- 
ceive the  credulous  aunt,  and  be  the  officious  obstacle 
of  his  match  with  Millamant? 

Mrs.  Mar.    My  obligations  to  my  lady  urged  me;    I 


292  THE   WAY   OF   THE    WORLD  [act  ii 

had  professed  a  friendship  to  her;  and  could  not  see  her 
easy  nature  so  abused  by  that  dissembler.  171 

Fain.  What,  was  it  conscience,  then?  Professed  a 
friendship!     Oh,  the  pious  friendships  of  the  female  sex! 

Mrs.  Mar.  More  tender,  more  sincere,  and  more  en- 
during than  all  the  vain  and  empty  vows  of  men,  whether 
professing  love  to  us  or  mutual  faith  to  one  another. 

Fain.    Ha!  ha!  ha!     You  are  my  wife's  friend,  too. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Shame  and  ingratitude!  Do  you  re- 
proach me?  You,  you  upbraid  me?  Have  I  been  false 
to  her,  through  strict  fidelity  to  you,  and  sacrificed 
my  friendship  to  keep  my  love  inviolate?  And  have 
you  the  baseness  to  charge  me  with  the  guilt,  unmind- 
ful of  the  merit?  To  you  it  should  be  meritorious,  that 
I  have  been  vicious:  and  do  you  reflect  that  guilt  upon 
me,  which  should  lie  buried  in  your  bosom?  iSs 

Fain.  You  misinterpret  my  reproof.  I  meant  but  to 
remind  you  of  the  slight  account  you  once  could  make 
of  strictest  ties,  when  set  in  competition  with  your  love 
to  me. 

Mrs.  Mar.  'Tis  false,  you  urged  it  with  deliberate 
malice!  'twas  spoken  in  scorn,  and  I  never  will  forgive  it. 

Fain.  Your  guilt,  not  your  resentment,  begets  your 
rage.  If  yet  you  loved,  you  could  forgive  a  jealousy: 
but  you  are  stung  to  find  you  are  discovered.  194 

Mrs.  Mar.  It  shall  be  all  discovered.  You  too  shall 
be  discovered;  be  sure  you  shall.  I  can  but  be  exposed. 
—  If  I  do  it  myself  I  shall  prevent  your  baseness. 

Fain.    Why,  what  will  you  do? 

Mrs.  Mar.  Disclose  it  to  your  wife;  own  what  has 
passed  between  us. 

Fain.    Frenzy!  201 

Mrs.  Mar.  Ey  all  my  wrongs  I'll  do't!  —  I'll  publish 
to  the  world  the  injuries  you  have  done  me,  both  in  my 
fame  and  fortune!  With  both  I  trusted  you,  you  bank- 
rupt in  honour,  as  indigent  of  wealth. 

Fain.   Your  fame  I  have  preserved:  your  fortune  has 


SCENE  I]         THE    WAY    OF   THE    WORLD  293 

been  bestowed  as  the  prodigality  of  your  love  would 
have  it,  in  pleasures  which  we  both  have  shared.  Yet, 
had  not  you  been  false,  I  had  ere  this  repaid  it  —  'tis  true 
—  had  you  permitted  Mirabell  with  Millamant  [210 
to  have  stolen  their  marriage,  my  lady  had  been  incensed 
beyond  all  means  of  reconcilement :  Millamant  had  for- 
feited the  moiety  of  her  fortune;  which  then  would  have 
descended  to  my  wife;  and  wherefore  did  I  marry,  but 
to  make  lawful  prize  of  a  rich  widow's  wealth,  and  squan- 
der it  on  love  and  you? 

Mrs.  Mar.    Deceit  and  frivolous  pretence!  217 

Fain.  Death,  am  I  not  married?  What's  pretence? 
Am  I  not  imprisoned,  fettered?  Have  I  not  a  wife?  nay 
a  wife  that  was  a  widow,  a  young  widow,  a  handsome 
widow;  and  would  be  again  a  widow,  but  that  I  have  a 
heart  of  proof,  and  something  of  a  constitution  to  bustle 
through  the  ways  of  wedlock  and  this  world!  Will  you 
yet  be  reconciled  to  truth  and  me? 

Mrs.  Afar.  Impossible.  Truth  and  you  are  inconsist- 
ent: I  hate  you,  and  shall  for  ever. 

Fain.    For  loving  you? 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  loathe  the  name  of  love  after  such  usage; 
and  next  to  the  guilt  with  which  you  would  asperse  me, 
I  scorn  you  most.     Farewell!  230 

Fain.    Nay,  we  must  not  part  thus. 

Mrs.  Mar.   Let  me  go. 

Fain.    Come,  I'm  sorry. 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  care  not  —  let  me  go  —  break  my  hands, 
do  —  I'd  leave  'em  to  get  loose. 

Fain.  I  would  not  hurt  you  for  the  world.  Have  I 
no  other  hold  to  keep  you  here? 

Mrs.  Mar.    Well,  I  have  deserved  it  all. 

Fain.   You  know  I  love  you. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Poor  dissembling! — Oh,  that  —  well,  it 
is  not  yet  —  241 

Fain.  What?  What  is  it  not?  What  is  it  not  )'^et? 
It  is  not  yet  too  late  — 


294  THE   WAV    OF    THE    WORLD  [act  il 

Mrs.  Mar.  No,  it  is  not  yet  too  late  —  I  have  that 
comfort. 

Fain.    It  is,  to  love  another. 

Mrs.  Mar.  But  not  to  loathe,  detest,  abhor  mankind, 
myself,  and  the  whole  treacherous  world.  248 

Fain.  Nay,  this  is  extravagance.  —  Come,  I  ask  your 
pardon  —  no  tears  —  I  was  to  blame,  I  could  not  love 
you  and  be  easy  in  my  doubts.  Pray  forbear  —  I  be- 
lieve you;  I'm  convinced  I've  done  you  wrong;  and  any- 
way, every  way  will  make  amends.  I'll  hate  my  wife  yet 
more,  damn  her!  I'll  part  with  her,  rob  her  of  all  she's 
worth,  and  we'll  retire  somewhere,  anywhere,  to  another 
world.  I'll  marry  thee  —  be  pacified.  —  'Sdeath  they 
come,  hide  your  face,  your  tears  —  you  have  a  mask," 
wear  it  a  moment.     This  way,  this  way  —  be  persuaded. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  II 
The  same 

MiRABELL  and  Mrs.  Fainall 

Mrs.  Fain.   They  are  here  yet. 

Mir.   They  are  turning  into  the  other  walk. 

Mrs.  Fain.  While  I  only  hated  my  husband,  I  could 
bear  to  see  him;  but  since  I  have  despised  him,  he's  too 
offensive. 

Mir.    Oh,  you  should  hate  with  prudence. 

Mrs.  Fain.   Yes,  for  I  have  loved  with  indiscretion. 

Mir.  You  should  have  just  so  much  disgust  for  your 
husband,  as  may  be  sufficient  to  make  you  relish  your 
lover.  10 

Mrs.  Fain.  You  have  been  the  cause  that  I  have 
loved  without  bounds,  and  would  you  set  limits  to  that 
aversion  of  which  you  have  been  the  occasion?  Why 
did  you  make  me  marry  this  man? 


SCENE  II]        THE    WAY    OF    THE    WORLD  295 

Mir.  Why  do  we  daily  commit  disagreeable  and  dan- 
gerous actions?  To  save  that  idol,  reputation.  If  the 
familiarities  of  our  loves  had  produced  that  consequence 
of  which  you  were  apprehensive,  where  could  you  have 
fixed  a  father's  name  with  credit,  but  on  a  husband?  I 
knew  Fainall  to  be  a  man  lavish  of  his  morals,  an  [20 
interested  and  professing  friend,  a  false  and  a  designing 
lover;  yet  one  whose  wit  and  outward  fair  behaviour 
have  gained  a  reputation  with  the  town  enough  to  make 
that  woman  stand  excused  who  has  suffered  herself  to  be 
won  by  his  addresses.  A  better  man  ought  not  to  have 
been  sacrificed  to  the  occasion ;  a  worse  had  not  answered 
to  the  purpose.  When  you  are  weary  of  him,  you  know 
your  remedy. 

Mrs.  Fain.  I  ought  to  stand  in  some  degree  of  credit 
with  you,  Mirabell.  30 

Mir.  In  justice  to  you,  I  have  made  you  privy  to  my 
whole  design,  and  put  it  in  your  power  to  ruin  or  advance 
my  fortune. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Whom  have  you  instructed  to  represent 
your  pretended  uncle? 

Mir.    Waitwell,  my  servant. 

Mrs.  Fain.  He  is  an  humble  servant  to  Foil^le  my 
mother's  woman,  and  may  win  her  to  your  interest. 

Mir.  Care  is  taken  for  that  —  she  is  won  and  worn  by 
this  time.     They  were  married  this  morning.  40 

Mrs.  Fain.    Who? 

Mir.  Waitwell  and  Foible.  I  would  not  tempt  any 
servant  to  betray  me  by  trusting  him  too  far.  If  your 
mother,  in  hopes  to  ruin  me,  should  consent  to  marry  my 
pretended  uncle,  he  might,  like  Mosca  in  The  Fox,  stand 
upon  terms;  "   so  I  made  him  sure  beforehand. 

Mrs.  Fain.  So  if  my  poor  mother  is  caught  in  a  con- 
tact, you  will  discover  the  imposture  betimes,  and  release 
her  by  producing  a  certificate  of  her  gallant's  former 
marriage?  so 

Mir.   Yes,  upon  condition  that  she  consent  to  my 


296  THE    WAY    OF   THE   WORLD  [act  ii 

marriage  with  her  niece,  and  surrender  the  moiety  of  her 
fortune  in  her  possession. 

Mrs.  Fain.  She  talked  last  night  of  endeavouring  at  a 
match  between  Millamant  and  your  uncle. 

Mir.  That  was  by  Foible's  direction,  and  my  instruc- 
tion, that  she  might  seem  to  carry  it  more  privately. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Well,  I  have  an  opinion  of  your  success; 
for  I  believe  my  lady  will  do  anything  to  get  a  husband; 
and  when  she  has  this,  which  you  have  provided  for  her, 
I  suppose  she  will  submit  to  anything  to  get  rid  of  him.   61 

Mir.  Yes,  I  think  the  good  lady  would  marry  any- 
thing that  resembled  a  man,  though  'twere  no  more  than 
what  a  butler  could  pinch  out  of  a  napkin. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Female  frailty!  We  must  all  come  to  it,  if 
we  live  to  be  old,  and  feel  the  craving  of  a  false  appetite 
when  the  true  is  decayed. 

Mir.  An  old  woman's  appetite  is  depraved  like  that  of 
a  girl  —  'tis  the  green  sickness  of  a  second  childhood; 
and,  like  the  faint  offer  of  a  latter  spring,  serves  but  to 
usher  in  the  fall,  and  withers  in  an  affected  bloom.      71 

Mrs.  Fain.    Here's  your  mistress. 

Enter  Mrs.  Millamant,  Witwoud,  and  Mincing 

Mir.  Here  she  comes,  i'faith,  full  sail,  with  her  fan 
spread  and  her  streamers  out,  and  a  shoal  of  fools  for 
tenders;   ha,  no,  I  cry  her  mercy! 

Mrs.  Fain.  I  see  but  one  poor  empty  sculler;  and  he 
tows  her  woman  after  him. 

Mir.  [To  Mrs.  Millamant.]  You  seem  to  be  unat- 
tended, madam  —  you  used  to  have  the  beau  monde" 
throng  after  you;  and  a  flock  of  gay  fine  perukes  hover- 
ing round  you.  Si 

Wit.  Like  moths  about  a  candle.  —  I  had  like  to  have 
lost  my  comparison  for  want  of  breath. 

Mrs.  Alil.  Oh,  I  have  denied  myself  airs  to-day,  I  have 
walked  as  fast  through  the  crowd. 


SCENE  II]        THE    WAY    OF   THE   WORLD  297 

Wit.  As  a  favourite  just  disgraced;  and  with  as  few 
followers. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Dear  Mr.  Witwoud,  truce  with  your  simili- 
tudes;  for  I'm  as  sick  of  'em  — 

Wit.  As  a  physician  of  a  good  air.  —  I  cannot  help  it, 
madam,  though  'tis  against  myself.  91 

Mrs.  Mil.  Yet,  again!  Mincing,  stand  between  me 
and  his  wit. 

Wit.  Do,  Mrs.  Mincing,  like  a  screen  before  a  great 
fire.  —  I  confess  I  do  blaze  to-day;  I  am  too  bright. 

Mrs.  Fain.  But,  dear  Millamant,  why  were  you  so 
long  ? 

Mrs.  Mil.  Long!  Lord,  have  I  not  made  violent 
haste;  I  have  asked  every  living  thing  I  met  for  you; 
I  have  inquired  after  you,  as  after  a  new  fashion.        100 

Wit.  Madam,  truce  with  your  simiUtudes.  —  No,  you 
met  her  husband,  and  did  not  ask  him  for  her. 

Mrs.  Mil.  By  your  leave,  Witwoud,  that  were  like 
inquiring  after  an  old  fashion,  to  ask  a  husband  for  his 
wife. 

Wit.   Hum,  a  hit!  a  hit!  a  palpable  hit!     I  confess  it. 

Mrs.  Fain.   You  were  dressed  before  I  came  abroad. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Aye,  that's  true.  —  Oh,  but  then  I  had  — 
Mincing,  what  had  I?     Why  was  I  so  long?  109 

Min.  0  mem,  your  la'ship  stayed  to  peruse  a  packet 
of  letters. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Oh,  aye,  letters  —  I  had  letters  —  I  am 
persecuted  with  letters  —  I  hate  letters.  —  Nobody 
knows  how  to  write  letters,  and  yet  one  has  'em,  one  does 
not  know  why.     They  serve  one  to  pin  up  one's  hair. 

Wit.  Is  that  the  way?  Pray,  madam,  do  you  pin  up 
your  hair  with  all  your  letters?  I  find  I  must  keep 
copies. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Only  with  those  in  verse,  Mr.  Witwoud;  I 
never  pin  up  my  hair  with  prose.  —  I  think  I  tried  once, 
Mincing.  121 

Min.   O  mem,  I  shall  never  forget  it. 


298  THE    WAY    OF   THE    WORLD  [act  il 

Mrs.  Mil.  Aye,  poor  Mincing  tift  and  tift"  all  the 
morning. 

Min.  Till  I  had  the  cramp  in  my  fingers,  I'll  vow, 
mem:  and  all  to  no  purpose.  But  when  your  la'ship  pins 
it  up  with  poetry,  it  sits  so  pleasant  the  next  day  as  any- 
thing, and  is  so  pure   and  so  crips. 

Wit.    Indeed,  so  crips? 

Min.    You're  such  a  critic,  Mr.  Witwoud.  130 

Mrs.  Mil.  Mirabell,  did  you  take  exceptions  last 
night?  Oh,  aye,  and  went  away.  —  Now  I  think  on't  I'm 
angry  —  no,  now  I  think  on't  I'm  pleased  —  for  I  be- 
lieve I  gave  you  some  pain. 

Mir.    Does  that  please  you? 

Mrs.  Mil.    Infinitely;   I  love  to  give  pain. 

Mir.  You  would  affect  a  cruelty  which  is  not  in  your 
nature;   your  true  vanity  is  in  the  power  of  pleasing. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Oh,  I  ask  you  pardon  for  that  —  one's 
cruelty  is  one's  power;  and  wheli  one  parts  with  one's 
cruelty,  one  parts  with  one's  power;  and  when  one  has 
parted  with  that,  I  fancy  one's  old  and  ugly.  142 

Mir.  Aye,  aye,  suffer  your  cruelty  to  ruin  the  object  of 
your  power,  to  destroy  your  lover  —  and  then  how  vain, 
how  lost  a  thing  you'll  be!  Nay,  'tis  true:  you  are  no 
longer  handsome  when  you've  lost  your  lover;  your 
beauty  dies  upon  the  instant;  for  beauty  is  the  lover's 
gift;  'tis  he  bestows  your  charms  —  your  glass  is  all  a 
cheat.  The  ugly  and  the  old,  whom  the  looking-glass 
mortifies,  yet  after  commendation  can  be  flattered  by  it, 
and  discover  beauties  in  it;  for  that  reflects  our  praises, 
rather  than  your  face.  152 

Mrs.  Mil.  Oh,  the  vanity  of  these  men!  —  Fainall, 
d'ye  hear  him?  If  they  did  not  commend  us,  we  were 
not  handsome!  Now  you  must  know  they  could  not 
commend  one,  if  one  was  not  handsome.  Beauty  the 
lover's  gift!  —  Lord,  what  is  a  lover,  that  it  can  give? 
Why,  one  makes  lovers  as  fast  as  one  pleases,  and 
they    live    as   long    as   one   pleases,    and    they  die   as 


SCENE  II]        THE    WAY    OF   THE    WORLD  299 

soon   as  one   pleases:    and   then,    if   one   pleases,    one 
makes    more.  161 

Wit.  Very  pretty.  Why,  you  make  no  more  of  mak- 
ing of  lovers,  madam,  than  of  making  so  many  card- 
matches. 

Mrs.  Mil.  One  no  more  owes  one's  beauty  to  a  lover, 
than  one's  wit  to  an  echo.  They  can  but  reflect  what  we 
look  and  say;  vain  empty  things  if  we  are  silent  or  un- 
seen, and  want  a  being. 

Mir.  Yet  to  those  two  vain  empty  things  you  owe  the 
two  greatest  pleasures  of  your  life.  170 

Mrs.  Mil.    How  so? 

Mir.  To  your  lover  you  owe  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
yourselves  praised;  and  to  an  echo  the  pleasure  of  hear- 
ing yourselves  talk. 

Wit.  But  I  know  a  lady  that  loves  talking  so  inces- 
santly, she  won't  give  an  echo  fair  play;  she  has  that 
everlasting  rotation  of  tongue,  that  an  echo  must  wait 
till  she  dies,  before  it  can  catch  her  last  words. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Oh,  fiction!  —  Fainall,  let  us  leave  these 
men.  180 

Mir.    [Aside  to  Mrs.  Fainall.]     Draw  off  Witwoud. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Immediately.  —  I  have  a  word  or  two  for 
Mr.  Witwoud.        [Exeunt  Mrs.  Fainall  and  Witwoud. 

Mir.  I  would  beg  a  little  private  audience  too.  —  You 
had  the  tyranny  to  deny  me  last  night;  though  you 
knew  I  came  to  impart  a  secret  to  you  that  concerned 
my  love.    ' 

Mrs.  Mil.    You  saw  I  was  engaged.  188 

Mir.  Unkind!  You  had  the  leisure  to  entertain  a 
herd  of  fools;  things  who  visit  you  from  their  excessive 
idleness;  bestowing  on  your  easiness  that  time  which 
is  the  encumbrance  of  their  lives.  How  can  you  find 
delight  in  such  society?  It  is  impossible  they  should 
admire  you,  they  are  not  capable:  or  if  they  were,  it 
should  be  to  you  as  a  mortification;  for  sure  to  please  a 
fool  is  some  degree  of  folly. 


300  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  ii 

Mrs.  Mil.  I  please  myself:  besides,  sometimes  to 
converse  with  fools  is  for  my  health. 

Mir.  Your  health  !  Is  there  a  worse  disease  than  the 
conversation  of  fools?  200 

Mrs.  Mil.  Yes,  the  vapours;  fools  are  physic  for  it, 
next  to  asafcetida. 

Mir.    You  are  not  in  a  course  of  fools?" 

Mrs.  Mil.  Mirabell,  if  you  persist  in  this  offensive 
freedom,  you'll  displease  me.  —  I  think  I  must  resolve, 
after  all,  not  to  have  you;   we  shan't  agree. 

Mir.   Not  in  our  physic,  it  may  be.  207 

Mrs.  Mil.  And  yet  our  distemper,  in  all  likelihood, 
will  be  the  same;  for  we  shall  be  sick  of  one  another.  I 
shan't  endure  to  be  reprimanded  nor  instructed:  'tis  so 
dull  to  act  always  by  advice,  and  so  tedious  to  be  told  of 
one's  faults  —  I  can't  bear  it.  Well,  I  won't  have  you, 
Mirabell,  —  I'm  resolved  —  I  think  —  you  may  go.  — 
Ha!  ha!  ha!  What  would  you  give,  that  you  could  help 
loving  me? 

Mir.  I  would  give  something  that  you  did  not  know  I 
could  not  help  it. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Come,  don't  look  grave,  then.  Well,  what 
do  you  say  to  me?  219 

Mir.  I  say  that  a  man  may  as  soon  make  a  friend  by 
his  wit,  or  a  fortune  by  his  honesty,  as  win  a  woman  by 
plain  dealing  and  sincerity. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Sententious  Mirabell!  —  Prithee,  don't 
look  with  that  violent  and  inflexible  wise  face,  hke  Solo- 
mon at  the  dividing  of  the  child  in  an  old  tapestry  hang- 

ing.'^ 

Mir.  You  are  merry,  madam,  but  I  would  persuade 
you  for  a  moment  to  be  serious.  228 

Mrs.  Mil.  What,  with  that  face?  No,  if  you  keep 
your  countenance,  'tis  impossible  I  should  hold  mine. 
Well,  after  all,  there  is  something  very  moving  in  a  love- 
sick face.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  —  Well,  I  won't  laugh,  don't  be 
peevish  —  Heigho!    now  I'll  be  melancholy,  as  melan- 


SCENE  II]        THE   WAY    OF   THE   WORLD  301 

choly  as  a  watch-light.  Well,  Mirabell,  if  ever  you  will 
win  me  woo  me  now.  —  Nay,  if  you  are  so  tedious,  fare 
you  well  —  I  see  they  are  walking  away. 

Mir.  Can  you  not  find  in  the  variety  of  your  disposi- 
tion one  moment  — 

Mrs.  Mil.  To  hear  you  tell  me  Foible's  married,  and 
your  plot  like  to  speed  —  no.  240 

Mir.    But  how  came  you  to  know  it? 

Mrs.  Mil.  Without  the  help  of  the  devil,  you  can't 
imagine;  unless  she  should  tell  me  herself.  Which  of 
the  two  it  may  have  been  I  will  leave  you  to  consider; 
and  when  you  have  done  thinking  of  that,  think  of  me. 

[Exit. 

Mir.  I  have  something  more.  —  Gone!  —  Think  of 
you?  To  think  of  a  whirlwind,  though't  were  in  a  whirl- 
wind, were  a  case  of  more  steady  contemplation;  a  very 
tranquillity  of  mind  and  mansion.  A  fellow  that  lives 
in  a  windmill,  has  not  a  more  whimsical  dwelling  [250 
than  the  heart  of  a  man  that  is  lodged  in  a  woman. 
There  is  no  point  of  the  compass  to  which  they  cannot 
turn,  and  by  which  they  are  not  turned;  and  by  one  as 
well  as  another;  for  motion,  not  method,  is  their  occu- 
pation. To  know  this,  and  yet  continue  to  be  in  love, 
is  to  be  made  wise  from  the  dictates  of  reason,  and  yet 
persevere  to  play  the  fool  by  the  force  of  instinct.  — 
Oh,  here  come  my  pair  of  turtles!  —  What,  billing  so 
sweetly!    Is  not  Valentine's  Day  over  with  you  yet?   259 

Enter  Waitwell  and  Foible 

Sirrah,  Waitwell,  why  sure  you  think  you  were  married 
for  your  own  recreation,  and  not  for  my  conveniency. 

Wait.  Your  pardon,  sir.  With  submission,  we  have 
indeed  been  solacing  in  lawful  delights;  but  still  with  an 
eye  to  business,  sir.  I  have  instructed  her  as  well  as  I 
could.  If  she  can  take  your  directions  as  readily  as  my 
instructions,  sir,  your  affairs  are  in  a  prosperous  way. 


302  THE    WAY    OF    THE    WORLD  [act  ii 

Mir.    Give  you  joy,  Mrs.  Foible. 

Foib.  Oh,  'las,  sir,  I'm  so  ashamed!  —  I'm  afraid  my 
lady  has  been  in  a  thousand  inquietudes  for  me.  But 
I  protest,  sir,  I  made  as  much  haste  as  I  could.  270 

Wait.  That  she  did  indeed,  sir.  It  was  my  fault  that 
she  did  not  make  more. 

Mir.    That  I  believe. 

Foib.  But  I  told  my  lady  as  you  instructed  me,  sir, 
that  I  had  a  prospect  of  seeing  Sir  Rowland  your  uncle; 
and  that  I  would  put  her  ladyship's  picture  in  my  pocket 
to  show  him;  which  I'll  be  sure  to  say  has  made  him 
so  enamoured  of  her  beauty,  that  he  burns  with  im- 
patience to  lie  at  her  ladyship's  feet,  and  worship  the 
original.  280 

Mir.  Excellent  Foible!  Matrimony  has  made  you 
eloquent  in  love. 

Wait.    I  think  she  has  profited,  sir,  I  think  so. 

Foib.    You  have  seen  Madam  Millamant,  sir? 

Mir.    Yes. 

Foib.  I  told  her,  sir,  because  I  did  not  know  that  you 
might  find  an  opportunity;  she  had  so  much  company 
last  night. 

Mir.  Your  diligence  will  merit  more  —  in  the  mean- 
time —  [Gives  money. 

Foib.    0  dear  sir,  your  humble  servant!  291 

Wait.    Spouse. 

Mir.  Stand  off,  sir,  not  a  penny!  —  Go  on  and  pros- 
per, Foible  —  the  lease  shall  be  made  good,  and  the 
farm  stocked,  if  we  succeed. 

Foib.  I  don't  question  your  generosity,  sir:  and  you 
need  not  doubt  of  success.  If  you  have  no  more  com- 
mands, sir,  I'll  be  gone;  I'm  sure  my  lady  is  at  her 
toilet,  and  can't  dress  till  I  come.  —  Oh,  dear,  I'm  sure 
that  [Looking  out]  was  Mrs.  Marwood  that  went  by  in  a 
mask!  If  she  has  seen  me  with  you  I'm  sure  she'll  tell 
my  lady.  I'll  make  haste  home  and  prevent  her.  Your 
servant,    sir.  —  B'w'y,"  Waitwell.  [Exit.     303 


SCENE  II]        THE    WAY    OF   THE   WORLD  303 

Wait.  Sir  Rowland,  if  you  please.  —  The  jade's  so  pert 
upon  her  preferment  she  forgets  herself. 

Mir.  Come,  sir,  will  you  endeavour  to  forget  your- 
self, and  transform  into  Sir  Rowland  ? 

Wait.  Why,  sir,  it  will  be  impossible  I  should  remem- 
ber myself.  —  Married,  knighted,  and  attended  all  in 
one  day!  'tis  enough  to  make  any  man  forget  himself. 
The  difficulty  will  be  how  to  recover  my  acquaintance 
and  familiarity  with  my  former  self,  and  fall  from  my 
transformation  to  a  reformation  into  Waitwell.  Nay, 
I  shan't  be  quite  the  same  Waitwell  neither;  for  now,  I 
remember  me,  I'm  married,  and  can't  be  my  own  man 

316 


again. 


Aye,  there's  my  grief;  that's  the  sad  change  of  life, 
To  lose  my  title,  and  yet  keep  my  wife.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  THE   THIRD 

Scene  I 

A  Room  in  Lady  Wisiiyo-rt%  House 

Lady  Wishfort  at  her  toilet,  Peg  waiting 

Lady  Wish.    Merciful!  no  news  of  Foible  yet? 

Peg.    No,  madam. 

Lady  Wish.  I  have  no  more  patience.  —  If  I  have  not 
fretted  myself  till  I  am  pale  again,  there's  no  veracity 
in  me!  Fetch  me  the  red  —  the  red,  do  you  hear, 
sweetheart?  —  An  arrant  ash-colour,  as  I  am  a  person! 
Look  you  how  this  wench  stirs!  —  Why  dost  thou  not 
fetch  me  a  little  red?    Didst  thou  not  hear  me,  Mopus?" 

Peg.  The  red  ratafia,  does  your  ladyship  mean,  or  the 
cherry-brandy?  lo 

Lady  Wish.  Ratafia,  fool!  No,  fool.  Not  the  ratafia, 
fool  —  grant  me  patience!  —  I  mean  the  Spanish  paper," 
idiot  —  complexion,  darhng.  Paint,  paint,  paint,  dost 
thou  understand  that,  changeling,  dangling  thy  hands 
like  bobbins  before  thee?  Why  dost  thou  not  stir,  pup- 
pet?    Thou  wooden  thing  upon  wires! 

Peg.  Lord,  madam,  your  ladyship  is  so  impatient!  — 
I  cannot  come  at  the  paint,  madam;  Mrs.  Foible  has 
locked  it  up,  and  carried  the  key  with  her.  19 

Lady  Wish.  A  pox  take  you  both!  — Fetch  me  the 
cherry-brandy  then.  [Exit  Peg.]  I'm  as  pale  and  as 
faint,  I  look  like  Mrs.  Qualmsick,  the  curate's  wife,  that's 
always  breeding.  —  Wench,  come,  come,  wench,  what 
art  thou  doing?  sipping,  tasting?  —  Save  thee,  dost  thou 
not  know  the  bottle? 

304 


SCENE  I]         THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  305 

Re-enter  Peg  with  a  bottle  and  china  cup 

Peg.    Madam,  I  was  looking  for  a  cup. 

Lady  Wish.  A  cup,  save  thee!  and  what  a  cup  hast 
thou  brought!  —  Dost  thou  take  me  for  a  fairy,  to  drink 
out  of  an  acorn?  Why  didst  thou  not  bring  thy  thimble? 
Hast  thou  ne'er  a  brass  thimble  clinking,  in  thy  [30 
pocket  with  a  bit  of  nutmeg?  °  —  I  warrant  thee.  Come, 
fill,  fill!  —  So  — again.  —  [Knocking  at  the  door.]  —  See 
w^ho  that  is.  —  Set  down  the  bottle  first  —  here,  here, 
under  the  table.  —  What,  wouldst  thou  go  with  the 
bottle  in  thy  band,  like  a  tapster?  As  I  am  a  person, 
this  wench  has  lived  in  an  inn  upon  the  road,  before  she 
came  to  me,  like  Maritornes  the  Asturian  in  Don 
Quixote!"  —  No  Foible  yet? 

Peg.    No,  madam;   Mrs.  Marwood. 

Lady  Wish.  Oh,  Marwood;  let  her  come  in.  —  Come 
in,  good  Marwood.  41 

Enter  Mrs.  Marwood 

Mrs.  Mar.  I'm  surprised  to  find  your  ladyship  in  dis- 
habille at  this  time  of  day. 

Lady  Wish.  Foible's  a  lost  thing;  has  been  abroad 
since  morning,  and  never  heard  of  since. 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  saw  her  but  now,  as  I  came  masked 
through  the  park,  in  conference  with  Mirabell. 

Lady  Wish.  With  Mirabell!  —  You  call  my  blood  into 
my  face,  with  mentioning  that  traitor.  She  durst  not 
have  the  confidence!  I  sent  her  to  negotiate  an  affair, 
in  which,  if  I'm  detected,  I'm  undone.  If  that  wheedling 
villain  has  wrought  upon  Foible  to  detect  me,  I'm  ruined. 
O  my  dear  friend,  I'm  a  wretch  of  wretches  if  I'm  de- 
tected. 54 

Mrs.  Mar.  O  madam,  you  cannot  suspect  Mrs. 
Foible's  integrity! 

Lady  Wish.    Oh,  he  carries  poison  in  his  tongue  that 

CONGREVE  —  20 


3o6  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  hi 

would  corrupt  integrity  itself!  If  she  has  given  him  an 
opportunity,  she  has  as  good  as  put  her  integrity  into 
his  hands.  Ah,  dear  Marwood,  what's  integrity  to  an  [60 
opportunity?  —  Hark!  I  hear  her! — dear  friend,  re- 
tire into  my  closet,  that  I  may  examine  her  with  more 
freedom.  —  You'll  pardon  me,  dear  friend;  I  can  make 
bold  with  you.  —  There  are  books  over  the  chimney  — 
—  Quarles  and  Prynne,"  and  The  Short  View  of  the 
Stage,^  with  Bunyan's  works,  to  entertain  you.  —  [To 
Peg.]  —  Go,  you  thing,  and  send  her  in. 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Marwood  and  Peg. 

Enter  Foible 

Lady  Wish.  O  Foible,  where  hast  thou  been?  What 
hast  thou  been  doing? 

Foib.    Madam,  I  have  seen  the  party.  7° 

Lady  Wish.    But  what  hast  thou  done? 

Foib.  Nay,  'tis  your  ladyship  has  done,  and  are  to  do; 
I  have  only  promised.  But  a  man  so  enamoured  —  so 
transported!  —  Well,  here  it  is,  all  that  is  left;  all  that  is 
not  kissed  away.  —  Well,  if  worshipping  of  pictures  be  a 
sin  —  poor  Sir  Rowland,  I  say. 

Lady  Wish.  The  miniature  has  been  counted  like  — 
but  hast  thou  not  betrayed  me.  Foible?  Hast  thou  not 
detected  me  to  that  faithless  Mirabell?  —  What  hadst 
thou  to  do  with  him  in  the  Park?  Answer  me,  has  he 
got  nothing  out  of  thee?  81 

Foib.  [Aside.]  So  the  devil  has  been  beforehand  with 
me.  What  shall  I  say?  —  Ul/oM(i.] —Alas,  madam, 
could  I  help  it,  if  I  met  that  confident  thing?  Was  I  in 
fault?  If  you  had  heard  how  he  used  me,  and  all  upon 
your  ladyship's  account,  I'm  sure  you  would  not  suspect 
my  fidelity.  Nay,  if  that  had  been  the  worst,  I  could 
have  borne;  but  he  had  a  fling  at  your  ladyship  too;  and 
then  I  could  not  hold;   but  i'faith  I  gave  him  his  own. 

Lady  Wish.    Me?   What  did  the  filthy  fellow  say?  90 


SCENE  I]        THE   WAY   OF   THE    WORLD  307 

Foib.  O  madam!  'tis  a  shame  to  say  what  he  said  — 
with  his  taunts  and  his  fleers,  tossing  up  his  nose. 
Humph!  (says  he)  what,  you  are  a  hatching  some  plot 
(says  he),  you  are  so  early  abroad,  or  catering  (says  he), 
ferreting  for  some  disbanded  officer,  I  warrant.  —  Half- 
pay  is  but  thin  subsistence  (says  he)  —  well,  what 
pension  does  your  lady  propose?  Let  me  see  (says  he), 
what,  she  must  come  down  pretty  deep  now,  she's  super- 
annuated (says  he)  and  —  99 

Lady  Wish.  Odds  my  life,  I'll  have  him,  I'll  have  him 
murdered!  I'll  have  him  poisoned!  Where  does  he 
eat?  —  I'll  marry  a  drawer  to  have  him  poisoned  in  his 
wine.     I'll  send  for  Robin  from  Locket's °  immediately. 

Foib.  Poison  him!  poisoning's  too  good  for  him. 
Starve  him,  madam,  starve  him:  marry  Sir  Rowland, 
and  get  him  disinherited.  Oh,  you  would  bless  yourself 
to  hear  what  he  said! 

Lady  Wish.   A  villain!     Superannuated!  108 

Foib.  Humph  (says  he),  I  hear  you  are  laying  designs 
against  me  too  (says  he)  and  Mrs.  Millamant  is  to  marry 
my  uncle  (he  does  not  suspect  a  word  of  your  ladyship) ; 
but  (says  he)  I'll  fit  you  for  that.  I  warrant  you  (says 
he)  I'll  hamper  you  for  that  (says  he) ;  you  and  your  old 
frippery  too  (says  he);    I'll  handle  you  — 

Lady  Wish.  Audacious  villain!  Handle  me!  would 
he  durst!  —  Frippery!  old  frippery!  Was  there  ever 
such  a  foul-mouthed  fellow?  I'll  be  married  to-morrow, 
I'll  be  contracted  to-night. 

Foib.   The  sooner  the  better,  madam.  119 

Lady  Wish.  Will  Sir  Rowland  be  here,  sayest  thou? 
when,  Foible? 

Foib.  Incontinently,  madam.  No  new  sheriff's  wife 
expects  the  return  of  her  husband  after  knighthood  with 
that  impatience  in  which  Sir  Rowland  burns  for  the 
dear  hour  of  kissing  your  ladyship's  hand  after  dinner. 

Lady  Wish.  Frippery!  superannuated  frippery!  I'll 
frippery  the  villain;  I'll  reduce  him  to  frippery  and  rags! 


3o8  THE   WAY   OF   THE    WORLD  [act  m 

a  tatterdemalion!  I  hope  to  see  him  hung  with  tatters, 
Hke  a  Long-lane  penthouse"  or  a  gibbet  thief.  A  slan- 
der-mouthed railer!  I  warrant  the  spendthrift  prodi- 
gal's in  debt  as  much  as  the  million  lottery,''  or  the  whole 
court  upon  a  birthday."  I'll  spoil  his  credit  with  his 
tailor.  Yes,  he  shall  have  my  niece  with  her  fortune, 
he  shall.  134 

Foib.  He!  I  hope  to  see  him  lodge  in  Ludgate  first, 
and  angle  into  Blackfriars  for  brass  farthings  with  an  old 
mitten." 

Lady  Wish.  Aye,  dear  Foible;  thank  thee  for  that,  dear 
Foible.  He  has  put  me  out  of  all  patience.  I  shall 
never  recompose  my  features  to  receive  Sir  Rowland  with 
any  economy  of  face.  This  wretch  has  fretted  me  that  I 
am  absolutely  decayed.     Look,  Foible.  142 

Foih.  Your  ladyship  has  frowned  a  little  too  rashly, 
indeed,  madam.  There  are  some  cracks  discernible  in 
the  white  varnish. 

Lady  Wish.  Let  me  see  the  glass.  —  Cracks,  sayest 
thou?  —  why,  I  am  errantly  flayed  —  I  look  Hke  an  old 
peeled  wall.  Thou  must  repair  me,  Foible,  before  Sir 
Rowland  comes,  or  I  shall  never  keep  up  to  my  picture. 

Foib.  I  warrant  you,  madam,  a  Httle  art  at  once  made 
your  picture  like  you;  and  now  a  little  of  the  same  art 
must  make  you  like  your  picture.  Y5ur  picture  must  sit 
for  you,  madam.  153 

Lady  Wish.  But  art  thou  sure  Sir  Rowland  will  not 
fail  to  come?  Or  will  he  not  fail  when  he  does  come? 
Will  he  be  importunate,  Foible,  and  push?  For  if  he 
should  not  be  importunate,  I  shall  never  break  decorums 

—  I  shall  die  with  confusion,  if  I  am  forced  to  advance. 

—  Oh,  no,  I  can  never  advance !  —  I  shall  swoon  if  he 
should  expect  advances.  No,  I  hope  Sir  Rowland  is 
better  bred  than  to  put  a  lady  to  the  necessity  of  break- 
ing her  forms.  I  won't  be  too  coy,  neither.  —  I  won't 
give  him  despair  —  but  a  Httle  disdain  is  not  amiss;  a 
little  scorn  is  alluring.  164 


SCENE  I]  THE    WAY    OF   THE   WORLD  309 

Foih.   A  little  scorn  becomes  your  ladyship. 

Lady  Wish.  Yes,  but  tenderness  becomes  me  best  —  a 
sort  of  dyingness  —  you  see  that  picture  has  a  sort  of  a  — 
ha,  Foible!  a  swimmingness  in  the  eye  —  yes,  I'll  look  so 
—  my  niece  affects  it;  but  she  wants  features.  Is  Sir 
Rowland  handsome?  Let  my  toilet  be  removed  —  I'll 
dress  above.  I'll  receive  Sir  Rowland  here.  Is  he 
handsome?  Don't  answer  me.  I  won't  know;  I'll  be 
surprised,  I'll  be  taken  by  surprise.  173 

Foib.   By  storm,  madam,  Sir  Rowland's  a  brisk  man. 

Lady  Wish.  Is  he!  Oh,  then  he'll  importune,  if  he's  a 
brisk  man.  I  shall  save  decorums  if  Sir  Rowland  impor- 
tunes. I  have  a  mortal  terror  at  the  apprehension  of 
offending  against  decorums.  Oh,  I'm  glad  he's  a  brisk 
man.     Let  my  things  be  removed,  good  Foible.      [Exit. 

Enter  Mrs.  Fainall 

Mrs.  Fain.  Oh,  Foible,  I  have  been  in  a  fright,  lest  I 
should  come  too  late!  That  devil  Marwood  saw  you  in 
the  Park  with  Mirabell,  and  I'm  afraid  will  discover  it  to 
my  lady.  183 

Foib.   Discover  what,  madam! 

Mrs.  Fain.  Nay,  nay,  put  not  on  that  strange  face,  I 
am  privy  to  the  whole  design,  and  know  that  Waitwell, 
to  whom  thou  wert  this  morning  married,  is  to  personate 
Mirabell's  uncle,  and  as  such,  winning  my  lady,  to  in- 
volve her  in  those  difficulties  from  which  Mirabell  only 
must  release  her,  by  his  making  his  conditions  to  have 
my  cousin  and  her  fortune  left  to  her  own  disposal.     191 

Foib.  0  dear  madam,  I  beg  your  pardon.  It  was  not 
my  confidence  in  your  ladyship  that  was  deficient;  but  I 
thought  the  former  good  correspondence  between  your 
ladyship  and  Mr.  Mirabell  might  have  hindered  his  com- 
municating this  secret. 

Mrs.  Fain.   Dear  Foible,  forget  that. 

Foib.   O  dear  madam,  Mr.  Mirabell  is  such  a  sweet, 


310  THE    WAY    OF   THE   WORLD  [act  ill 

winning  gentleman  —  but  your  ladyship  is  the  pattern 
of  generosity.  —  Sweet  lady,  to  be  so  good!  Mr.  [200 
Mirabell  cannot  choose  but  be  grateful.  I  find  your  lady- 
ship has  his  heart  still.  Now,  madam,  I  can  safely  tell 
your  ladyship  our  success;  Mrs.  Marwood  had  told  my 
lady;  but  I  warrant  I  managed  myself;  I  turned  it  all 
for  the  better.  I  told  my  lady  that  Mr.  Mirabell  railed 
at  her;  I  laid  horrid  things  to  his  charge,  I'll  vow;  and 
my  lady  is  so  incensed  that  she'll  be  contracted  to  Sir 
Rowland  to-night,  she  says;  I  warrant  I  worked  her  up, 
that  he  may  have  her  for  asking  for,  as  they  say  of 
a  Welsh  maidenhead.  210 

Mrs.  Fain.   0  rare  Foible! 

Foib.  Madam,  I  beg  your  ladyship  to  acquaint  Mr. 
Mirabell  of  his  success.  I  would  be  seen  as  little  as 
possible  to  speak  to  him:  besides,  I  believe  Madam 
Marwood  watches  me.  —  She  has  a  month's  mind;"  but 
I  know  Mr.  Mirabell  can't  abide  her. — John!  —  [Calls.] 
remove  my  lady's  toilet.  —  Madam,  your  servant:  my 
lady  is  so  impatient,  I  fear  she'll  come  for  me  if  I  stay. 

Mrs.  Fain.  I'll  go  with  you  up  the  backstairs,  lest  I 
should  meet  her.  [Exeunt.     220 

Scene  II 

Lady  Wishfort's  Closet 

Mrs.  Marwood  alone 

Mrs.  Mar.  Indeed,  Mrs.  Engine,  is  it  thus  with  you? 
Are  you  become  a  go-between  of  this  importance?  Yes, 
I  shall  watch  you.  Why  this  wench  is  the  passe-partout,^ 
a  very  master-key  to  everybody's  strong-box.  My  friend 
Fainall,  have  you  carried  it  so  swimmingly?  I  thought 
there  was  something  in  it;  but  it  seems  'tis  over  with 
you.  Your  loathing  in  not  from  a  want  of  appetite, 
then,  but  from  a  surfeit.     Else  you  could  never  be  so 


SCENE  II]        THE    WAY   OF    THE   WORLD  31I 

cool  to  fall  from  a  principal  to  be  an  assistant;  to  procure 
for  him!  A  pattern  of  generosity  that,  I  confess.  [10 
Well,  Mr.  Fainall,  you  have  met  with  your  match.  —  O 
man,  man!  woman,  woman,  the  devil's  an  ass:  if  I  were 
a  painter,  I  would  draw  him  like  an  idiot,  a  driveller 
with  a  bib  and  bells:  man  should  have  his  head  and 
horns,  and  woman  the  rest  of  him.  Poor  simple  fiend! 
—  "Madam  Marwood  has  a  month's  mind,  but  he 
can't  abide  her."  —  'Twere  better  for  him  you  had  not 
been  his  confessor  in  that  affair,  without  you  could  have 
kept  his  counsel  closer.  I  shall  not  prove  another  pat- 
tern of  generosity:  he  has  not  obliged  me  to  that  with 
those  excesses  of  himself!  and  now  I'll  have  none  of 
him.  Here  comes  the  good  lady,  panting  ripe;  with  a 
heart  full  of  hope,  and  a  head  full  of  care,  like  any  chem- 
ist upon  the  day  of  projection."  24 

Enter  Lady  Wishfort 

Lady  Wish.  Oh  dear,  Marwood,  what  shall  I  say  for 
this  rude  forgetfulness?  —  but  my  dear  friend  is  all  good- 
ness. 

Mrs.  Mar.  No  apologies,  dear  madam,  I  have  been 
very  well  entertained.  2g 

Lady  Wish.  As  I'm  a  person,  I  am  in  a  very  chaos  to 
think  I  should  so  forget  myself:  but  I  have  such  an 
olio  of  affairs,  really  I  know  not  what  to  do.  —  Foible!  — 
[Calls.]  I  expect  my  nephew.  Sir  Wilfull,  every  moment 
too.  —  Why,  Foible! — -He  means  to  travel  for  im- 
provement. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Methinks  Sir  Wilfull  should  rather  think  of 
marrying  than  travelUng,  at  his  years.  I  hear  he  is 
turned  of  forty. 

Lady  Wish.  Oh,  he's  in  less  danger  of  being  spoiled  by 
his  travels  —  I  am  against  my  nephew's  marrying  too 
young.  It  will  be  time  enough  when  he  comes  back, 
and  has  acquired  discretion  to  choose  for  himself.  42 


312  THE   WAY   OF   THE  WORLD  [act  hi 

Mrs.  Mar.  Methinks  Mrs.  Millamant  and  he  would 
make  a  very  fit  match.  He  may  travel  afterwards.  'Tis 
a  thing  very  usual  with  young  gentlemen. 

Lady  Wish.  I  promise  you  I  have  thought  on't  —  and 
since  'tis  your  judgement,  I'll  think  on't  again.  I  assure 
you  I  will;  I  value  your  judgement  extremely.  On  my 
word,   I'll  propose  it.  49 

Enter  Foible 

Lady  Wish.  Come,  come.  Foible  —  I  had  forgot  my 
nephew  will  be  here  before  dinner  —  I  must  make  haste. 

Foib.  Mr.  Witwoud  and  Mr.  Petulant  are  come  to 
dine  with  your  ladyship. 

Lady  Wish.  Oh,  dear,  I  can't  appear  till  I'm  dressed. 
—  Dear  Marwood,  shall  I  be  free  with  you  again,  and  beg 
you  to  entertain  'em?  I'll  make  all  imaginable  haste. 
Dear  friend,  excuse  me. 


Scene  III 
A  Room  in  Lady  Wisiifort's  House 

Mrs.  Marwood,  Mrs.  Millamant,  and  Mincing 

Mrs.  Mil.  Sure  never  anything  was  so  unbred  as  that 
odious  man!  —  Marwood,  your  servant. 

Mrs.  Mar.   You  have  a  colour;   what's  the  matter? 

Mrs.  Mil.  That  horrid  fellow,  Petulant,  has  provoked 
me  into  a  flame:  I  have  broken  my  fan.  —  Mincing,  lend 
me  yours;  is  not  all  the  powder  out  of  my  hair? 

Mrs.  Mar.   No.     What  has  he  done?  7 

Mrs.  Mil.  Nay,  he  has  done  nothing;  he  has  only 
talked  —  nay,  he  has  said  nothing  neither;  but  he  has 
contradicted  everything  that  has  been  said.  For  my 
part,  I  thought  Witwoud  and  he  would  have  quarrelled. 

Min.   I  vow,  mem,  I  thought  once  they  would  have  fit. 


SCENE  III]       THE   WAY   OF  THE   WORLD  313 

Mrs.  Mil.  Well,  'tis  a  lamentable  thing,  I  swear,  that 
one  has  not  the  liberty  of  choosing  one's  acquaintance  as 
one  does  one's  clothes. 

Mrs.  Mar.  If  we  had  that  liberty,  we  should  be  as 
weary  of  one  set  of  acquaintance,  though  never  so  good, 
as  we  are  of  one  suit  though  never  so  fine.  A  fool  and  a 
doily  stuff  would  now  and  then  find  days  of  grace,  and 
be  worn  for  variety.  20 

Mrs.  Mil.  I  could  consent  to  wear  'em,  if  they  would 
wear  alike;  but  foots  never  wear  out  —  they  are  such 
drap  de  Berri'^  things  without  one  could  give  'em  to  one's 
chambermaid  after  a  day  or  two! 

Mrs.  Mar.  'Twere  better  so  indeed.  Or  what  think 
you  of  the  playhouse?  A  fine  gay  glossy  fool  should  be 
given  there,  like  a  new  masking  habit,  after  the  masquer- 
ade is  over,  and  we  have  done  with  the  disguise.  For  a 
fool's  visit  is  always  a  disguise;  and  never  admitted  by  a 
woman  of  wit,  but  to  blind  her  affair  with  a  lover  of  [30 
sense.  If  you  would  but  appear  barefaced  now,  and  own 
Mirabell,  you  might  as  easily  put  off  Petulant  and  Wit- 
woud  as  your  hood  and  scarf.  And  indeed,  'tis  time,  for 
the  town  has  found  it;  the  secret  is  grown  too  big  for  the 
pretence.  'Tis  like  Mrs.  Primly 's  great  belly;  she  may 
lace  it  down  before,  but  it  burnishes  on  her  hips."  Indeed, 
Millamant,  you  can  no  more  conceal  it  than  my  Lady 
Strammel  can  her  face;  that  goodly  face,  which  in  defi- 
ance of  her  Rhenish  wine  tea,"  will  not  be  comprehended 
in  a  mask.  40 

Mrs.  Mil.  I'll  take  my  death,  Marwood,  you  are  more 
censorious  than  a  decayed  beauty,  or  a  discarded  toast." 
—  Mincing,  tell  the  men  they  may  come  up.  —  My  aunt  is 
not  dressing  here;  their  folly  is  less  provoking  than  your 
malice.  [£x^7  Mincing.]  The  town  has  found  it!  what 
has  it  found?  That  Mirabell  loves  me  is  no  more  a  secret 
than  it  is  a  secret  that  you  discovered  it  to  my  aunt,  or 
than  the  reason  why  you  discovered  it  is  a  secret. 

Mrs.  Mar.   You  are  nettled. 


314  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  in 

Mrs.  Mil.    You're  mistaken.     Ridiculous!  so 

Mrs.  Mar.  Indeed,  my  dear,  you'll  tear  another  fan, 
if  you  don't  mitigate  those  violent  airs. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Oh,  silly!  ha!  ha!  ha!  I  could  laugh  im- 
moderately. Poor  Mirabell!  His  constancy  to  me  has 
quite  destroyed  his  complaisance  for  all  the  world  beside. 
I  swear,  I  never  enjoined  it  him  to  be  so  coy  —  If  I  had 
the  vanity  to  think  he  would  obey  me,  I  would  command 
him  to  show  more  gallantry  —  'tis  hardly  well-bred  to  be 
so  particular  on  one  hand,  and  so  insensible  on  the  other. 
But  I  despair  to  prevail,  and  so  let  him  follow  his  own 
way.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  pardon  me,  dear  creature,  I  must 
laugh,  ha!  ha!  ha!  though  I  grant  you  'tis  a  Httle  barbar- 
ous, ha!  ha!  ha!  63 

Mrs.  Mar.  What  pity  'tis  so  much  fine  raillery,  and 
delivered  with  so  significant  gesture,  should  be  so  un- 
happily directed  to  miscarry! 

Mrs.  Mil.  Ha !  dear  creature,  I  ask  your  pardon  —  I 
swear  I  did  not  mind  you. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Mr.  Mirabell  and  you  both  may  think  it  a 
thing  impossible,  when  I  shaU  tell  him  by  telhng  you  — 

Mrs.  Mil.  Oh  dear,  what?  for  it  is  the  same  thing  if 
I  hear  it  —  ha!  ha!  ha!  72 

Mrs.  Mar.    That  I  detest  him,  hate  him,  madam. 

Mrs.  Mil.  O  madam,  why  so  do  I  —  and  yet  the  crea- 
ture loves  me,  ha !  ha !  ha !  How  can  one  forbear  laugh- 
ing to  think  of  it.  —  I  am  a  sibyl  if  I  am  not  amazed  to 
think  what  he  can  see  in  me.  I'll  take  my  death,"  I 
think  you  are  handsomer  —  and  within  a  year  or  two  as 
young  —  if  you  could  but  stay  for  me,  I  should  overtake 
you  —  but  that  cannot  be.  —  Well,  that  thought  makes 
me  melancholic.  —  Now,  I'll  be  sad.  81 

Mrs.  Mar.  Your  merry  note  may  be  changed  sooner 
than  you  think. 

Mrs.  Mil.  D'ye  say  so?  Then  I'm  resolved  I'll  have 
a  song  to  keep  up  my  spirits. 


SCENE  III]      THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  315 

Re-enter  Mincing 

Min.  The  gentlemen  stay  but  to  comb,  madam,  and 
will  wait  on  you. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Desire  Mrs.  —  that  is  in  the  next  room  to 
sing  the  song  I  would  have  learned  yesterday.  —  You 
shall  hear  it,  madam  —  not  that  there's  any  great  matter 
in  it  —  but  'tis  agreeable  to  my  humour.  91 

Song 

^'Love's  but  the  frailty  of  the  mind. 

When  His  not  with  ambition  joined; 
A  sickly  flame,  which,  if  not  fed,  expires, 
And  feeding,  wastes  in  self -consuming  fires. 

"  'Tis  not  to  wound  a  wanton  boy 

Or  amorous  youth,  that  gives  the  joy; 
But  'tis  the  glory  to  have  pierced  a  swain, 
For  whom  inferior  beauties  sighed  in  vain. 

"  Then  I  alone  the  conquest  prize,  loo 

When  I  insult  a  rival's  eyes: 
If  there's  delight  in  love,  'tis  when  I  see 
That  heart,  which  others  bleed  for,  bleed  for  me." 

Enter  Petulant  and  Witwoud 

Mrs.  Mil.   Is  your  animosity  composed,  gentlemen? 
Wit.   Raillery,  raillery,  madam;  we  have  no  animosity 

—  we  hit  oflf  a  little  wit  now  and  then,  but  no  animosity. 

—  The  faUing  out  of  wits  is  like  the  falling  out  of  lovers: 
we  agree  in  the  main,"  like  treble  and  bass.  —  Ha,  Petu- 
lant? 

Pet.    Aye,  in  the  main  —  but  when  I  have  a  humour 
to  contradict  —  ^^^ 


3i6  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  in 

Wit.  Aye,  when  he  has  a  humour  to  contradict,  then  I 
contradict  too.  What,  I  know  my  cue.  Then  we  con- 
tradict one  another  like  two  battledores;  for  contradic- 
tions beget  one  another  like  Jews. 

Pet.  If  he  says  black's  black  —  if  I  have  a  humour  to 
say  'tis  blue  —  let  that  pass  —  all's  one  for  that.  If  I 
have  a  humour  to  prove  it,  it  must  be  granted.  nS 

Wit.   Not  positively  must  —  but  it  may  —  it  may. 

Pet.   Yes,  it  positively  must,  upon  proof  positive. 

Wit.  Aye,  upon  proof  positive  it  must ;  but  upon  proof 
presumptive  it  only  may.  —  That's  a  logical  distinction 
now,  madam. 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  perceive  your  debates  are  of  importance, 
and  very  learnedly  handled. 

Pet.  Importance  is  one  thing,  and  learning's  another; 
but  a  debate's  a  debate,  that  I  assert. 

Wit.  Petulant's  an  enemy  to  learning;  he  relies  alto- 
gether on  his  parts.  i2g 

Pet.   No,  I'm  no  enemy  to  learning;   it  hurts  not  me. 

Mrs.  Mar.  That's  a  sign  indeed  it's  no  enemy  to 
you. 

Pet.  No,  no,  it's  no  enemy  to  anybody  but  them  that 
have  it. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Well,  an  illiterate  man's  my  aversion:  I 
wonder  at  the  impudence  of  any  ilUterate  man  to  offer  to 
make  love. 

Wit.   That  I  confess  I  wonder  at  too. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Ah!  to  marry  an  ignorant  that  can  hardly 
read  or  write.  ho 

Pet.  Why  should  a  man  be  any  further  from  being 
married,  though  he  can't  read,  than  he  is  from  being 
hanged?  The  ordinary's  paid  for  setting  the  psalm,"  and 
the  parish  priest  for  reading  the  ceremony.  And  for  the 
rest  which  is  to  follow  in  both  cases,  a  man  may  do  it 
without  book  —  so  all's  one  for  that. 

Mrs.  Mil.  D'ye  hear  the  creature?  —  Lord,  here's 
company,  I'll  be  gone.  [Exit. 


SCENE  III]       THE    WAY   OF    THE   WORLD  317 

Enter  Sir  Wilfull  Witwoud  in  a  riding  dress,  followed 

by  Footman 

Wit.  In  the  name  of  Bartlemew  and  his  fair,"  what 
have  we  here?  150 

Mrs.  Mar.  'Tis  your  brother,  I  fancy.  Don't  you 
know  him? 

Wit.  Not  I.  —  Yes,  I  think  it  is  he  —  I've  almost 
forgot  him;   I  have  not  seen  him  since  the  Revolution. 

Foot.  [To  Sir  Wilfull.]  Sir,  my  lady's  dressing. 
Here's  company;  if  you  please  to  walk  in,  in  the  mean- 
time. 

Sir  Wil.  Dressing!  What,  it's  but  morning  here  I 
warrant,  with  you  in  London;  we  should  count  it  to- 
wards afternoon  in  our  parts,  down  in  Shropshire.  — 
Why  then,  belike,  my  aunt  han't  dined  yet,  ha,  friend? 

Foot.   Your  aunt,  sir?  162 

Sir  Wil.  My  aunt,  sir!  Yes,  my  aunt,  sir,  and  your 
lady,  sir;  your  lady  is  my  aunt,  sir.  —  Why,  what  dost 
thou  not  know  me,  friend?  why  then  send  somebody 
hither  that  does.  How  long  hast  thou  lived  with  thy 
lady,  fellow,  ha? 

Foot.  A  week,  sir;  longer  than  anybody  in  the  house, 
except  my  lady's  woman. 

Sir  Wil.  Why  then  belike  thou  dost  not  know  thy 
lady,  if  thou  seest  her,  ha,  friend?  171 

Foot.  Why,  truly,  sir,  I  cannot  safely  swear  to  her  face 
in  a  morning,  before  she  is  dressed.  'Tis  like  I  may  give 
a  shrewd  guess  at  her  by  this  time. 

Sir  Wil.  Well,  prithee  try  what  thou  canst  do ;  if  thou 
canst  not  guess,  inquire  her  out,  dost  hear,  fellow?  and 
tell  her,  her  nephew,  Sir  Wilfull  Witwoud,  is  in  the  house. 

Foot.   I  shall,  sir. 

Sir  Wil.  Hold  ye,  hear  me,  friend;  a  word  with  you 
in  your  ear;   prithee  who  are  these  gallants?  180 

Foot.  Really,  sir,  I  can't  tell;  here  come  so  many  here, 
'tis  hard  to  know  'em  all.  [Exit. 


3i8  THE   WAY    OF   THE   WORLD  [act  iii 

Sir  Wil.  Oons,  this  fellow  knows  less  than  a  starling; 
I  don't  think  a'  knows  his  own  name. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Mr.  Witwoud,  your  brother  is  not  be- 
hindhand in  forgetfulness  —  I  fancy  he  has  forgot 
you  too. 

Wit.  I  hope  so  —  the  devil  take  him  that  remembers 
first,  I  say. 

Sir  Wil.    Save  you,  gentlemen  and  lady!  igo 

Mrs.  Mar.  For  shame,  Mr.  Witwoud;  why  don't  you 
speak  to  him?  —  And  you,  sir. 

Wit.    Petulant,  speak. 

Pet.   And  you,  sir. 

Sir  Wil.    No  offence,  I  hope. 

[Salutes  Mrs.  Marwood. 

Mrs.  Mar.    No  sure,  sir. 

Wit.  This  is  a  vile  dog,  I  see  that  already.  No  offence ! 
ha!  ha!  ha!     To  him;   to  him,  Petulant,  smoke  him." 

Pet.  It  seems  as  if  you  had  come  a  journey,  sir;  hem, 
hem.  {Surveying  him  round. 

Sir  Wil.   Very  likely,  sir,  that  it  may  seem  so.        201 

Pet.    No  offence,  I  hope,  sir. 

Wit.  Smoke  the  boots,  the  boots ;  Petulant,  the  boots: 
ha!  ha!  ha! 

Sir  Wil.  May  be  not,  sir ;  thereafter,  as  'tis  meant," 
sir. 

Pet.  Sir,  I  presume  upon  the  information  of  your 
boots. 

Sir  Wil.  Why,  'tis  like  you  may,  sir:  if  you  are  not 
satisfied  with  the  information  of  my  boots,  sir,  if  you  will 
step  to  the  stable,  you  may  inquire  further  of  my  horse, 
sir.  212 

Pet.   Your  horse,  sir!  your  horse  is  an  ass,  sir! 

Sir  Wil.    Do  you  speak  by  way  of  offence,  sir? 

Mrs.  Mar.  The  gentleman's  merry,  that's  all,  sir.  — 
[Aside.]  S'life,  we  shall  have  a  quarrel  betwixt  an  horse 
and  an  ass  before  they  find  one  another  out.  —  [Aloud.] 
You  must  not  take  anything  amiss  from  your  friends,  sir. 


SCENE  III]       THE   WAY   OF   THE    WORLD  319 

You  are  among  your  friends  here,  though  it  may  be  you 
don't  know  it.  —  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  you  are  Sir  Wii- 
full  Witwoud.  221 

Sir  Wil.  Right,  lady;  I  am  Sir  Wilfull  Witwoud,  so  I 
write  myself;  no  offence  to  anybody,  I  hope;  and 
nephew  to  the  Lady  Wishfort  of  this  mansion. 

Mrs.  Mar.    Don't  you  know  this  gentleman,  sir? 

Sir  Wil.  Hum!  what,  sure  'tis  not  —  yea  by'r  Lady, 
but  'tis  —  s'heart,  I  know  not  whether  'tis  or  no  —  yea, 
but 'tis,  by  the  Wrekin.  Brother  Anthony!  what  Tony, 
i'faith!  what,  dost  thou  not  know  me  ?  By'r  Lady,  nor 
I  thee,  thou  art  so  becravated,  and  so  beperiwigged.  — 
S'heart,  why  dost  not  speak?  art  thou  overjoyed?      231 

Wit.   Odso,  brother,  is  it  you?  your  servant,  brother. 

Sir  Wil.  Your  servant!  why  yours,  sir.  Your  servant 
again  —  s'heart,  and  your  friend  and  servant  to  that  — - 
and  a  — -  and  a  —  flap-dragon  for  your  service,  sir!  and 
a  hare's  foot  and  a  hare's  scut"  for  your  service,  sir!  an 
you  be  so  cold  and  so  courtly. 

Wit.    No  offence,  I  hope,  brother. 

Sir  Wil.  S'heart,  sir,  but  there  is,  and  much  offence! 
—  A  pox,  is  this  your  inns  o'  court  breeding,  not  to  know 
your  friends  and  your  relations,  your  elders  and  your 
betters?  242 

Wit.  Why,  brother  Wilfull  of  Salop,"  you  may  be  as 
short  as  a  Shrewsbury-cake,  if  you  please.  But  I  tell  you 
'tis  not  modish  to  know  relations  in  town:  you  think 
you're  in  the  country,  where  great  lubberly  brothers 
slabber  and  kiss  one  another  when  they  meet,  like  a  call 
of  Serjeants"  —  'tis  not  the  fashion  here;  'tis  not  in- 
deed, dear  brother.  249 

Sir  Wil.  The  fashion's  a  fool;  and  you're  a  fop,  dear 
brother.  S'heart,  I've  suspected  this  —  by'r  Lady,  I 
conjectured  you  were  a  fop,  since  you  began  to  change 
the  style  of  your  letters,  and  write  on  a  scrap  of  paper  gilt 
round  the  edges,  no  bigger  than  a  subpoena.  I  might 
expect  this  when  you  left  off,  "Honoured  brother";  and 


320  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  hi 

"hoping  you  are  in  good  health,"  and  so  forth  —  to 
begin  with  a  "  Rat  me,  knight,  I'm  so  sick  of  a  last  night's 
debauch"  —  'ods  heart,  and  then  tell  a  familiar  tale  of  a 
cock  and  a  bull,  and  a  whore  and  a  bottle,  and  so  con- 
clude. —  You  could  write  news  before  you  were  out  [260 
of  your  time,"  when  you  lived  with  honest  Pimple  Nose 
the  attorney  of  Furnival's  Inn" — you  could  entreat  to 
be  remembered  then  to  your  friends  round  the  reckan." 
We  could  have  gazettes,  then,  and  Dawks's  Letter,"  and 
the  Weekly  Bill,"  till  of  late  days. 

Pet.  S'life,  Witwoud,  were  you  ever  an  attorney's 
clerk?  of  the  family  of  the  Furnivals?     Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Wit.  Aye,  aye,  but  that  was  but  for  a  while:  not  long, 
not  long.  Pshaw!  I  was  not  in  my  own  power  then; 
an  orphan,  and  this  fellow  was  my  guardian;  aye,  aye,  [270 
I  was  glad  to  consent  to  that,  man,  to  come  to  London: 
he  had  the  disposal  of  me  then.  If  I  had  not  agreed  to 
that,  I  might  have  been  bound  'prentice  to  a  felt-maker 
in  Shrewsbury;  this  fellow  would  have  bound  me  to  a 
maker  of  felts. 

Sir  Wil.  S'heart,  and  better  than  to  be  bound  to  a 
maker  of  fops;  where,  I  suppose,  you  have  served  your 
time;    and  now  you  may  set  up  for  yourself. 

Mrs.  Mar.  You  intend  to  travel,  sir,  as  I'm  in- 
formed. 280 

Sir  Wil.  Belike  I  may,  madam.  I  may  chance  to  sail 
upon  the  salt  seas,  if  my  mind  hold. 

Pet.   And  the  wind  serve. 

Sir  Wil.  Serve  or  not  serve,  I  shan't  ask  licence  of  you, 
sir;  nor  the  weathercock  your  companion:  I  direct  my 
discourse  to  the  lady,  sir.  —  'Tis  like  my  aunt  may  have 
told  you,  madam  —  yes,  I  have  settled  my  concerns,  I 
may  say  now,  and  am  minded  to  see  foreign  parts.  If  an 
how  that  the  peace  holds,  whereby  that  is,  taxes  abate." 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  thought  you  had  designed  for  France  at 
all  adventures.  291 

Sir  Wil.   I  can't  tell  that;   'tis  like  I  may,  and 'tis  hke 


SCENE  III]      THE    WAY    OF   THE   WORLD  321 

I  may  not.  I  am  somewhat  dainty  in  making  a  resolu- 
tion —  because  when  I  make  it  I  keep  it.  I  don't  stand 
shill  I,  shall  I,  then;  if  I  say't,  I'll  do't;  but  I  have 
thoughts  to  tarry  a  small  matter  in  town,  to  learn  some- 
what of  your  lingo  first,  before  I  cross  the  seas.  I'd 
gladly  have  a  spice  of  your  French  as  they  say,  whereby 
to  hold  discourse  in  foreign  countries. 

Mrs.  Mar.   Here's  an  academy  in  town  for  that  use. 

Sir  Wil.   There  is?     'Tis  like  there  may."^  301 

Mrs.  Mar.  No  doubt  you  will  return  very  much  im- 
proved. 

Wit.  Yes,  refined,  like  a  Dutch  skipper  from  a  whale- 
fishing. 

Enter  Lady  Wishfort  and  Fainall 

Lady  Wish.    Nephew,  you  are  welcome. 

Sir  Wil.    Aunt,  your  servant. 

Fain.    Sir  Wilfull,  your  most  faithful  servant. 

Sir  Wil.    Cousin  Fainall,  give  me  your  hand.  309 

Lady  Wish.  Cousin  Witwoud,  your  servant;  Mr. 
Petulant,  your  servant  —  nephew,  you  are  welcome  again. 
Will  you  drink  anything  after  your  journey,  nephew; 
before  you  eat?  dinner's  almost  ready. 

Sir  Wil.  I'm  very  well,  I  thank  you,  aunt  —  however, 
I  thank  you  for  your  courteous  offer.  S'heart  I  was 
afraid  you  would  have  been  in  the  fashion  too,  and  have 
remembered  to  have  forgot  your  relations.  Here's  your 
cousin  Tony,  belike,  I  mayn't  call  him  brother  for  fear 
of  offence.  310 

Lady  Wish.  Oh,  he's  a  railleur,  nephew  —  my  cousin's 
a  wit:  and  your  great  wits  always  rally  their  best  friends 
to  choose."  When  you  have  been  abroad,  nephew,  you'll 
understand  raillery  better. 

[Fainall  and  Mrs.  Marwood  talk  apart. 

Sir  Wil.  Why  then  let  him  hold  his  tongue  in  the 
meantime;   and  rail  when  that  day  comes. 

CONGREVE —  21 


322  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  hi 

Enter  Mincing 

Min.  Mem,  I  am  come  to  acquaint  your  la'ship  that 
dinner  is  impatient.  327 

Sir  Wil.  Impatient!  why  then  belike  it  won't  stay  till 
I  pull  off  my  boots.  —  Sweetheart,  can  you  help  me  to  a 
pair  of  slippers?  —  My  man's  with  his  horses,  I  warrant. 

Lady  Wish.  Fie,  fie,  nephew!  you  would  not  pull  off 
your  boots  here?  —  Go  down  into  the  hall  —  dinner  shall 
stay  for  you.  —  My  nephew's  a  little  unbred,  you'll 
pardon  him,  madam.  —  Gentlemen,  will  you  walk?  — 
Marwood  — 

Mrs.  Mar.  I'll  follow  you,  madam  —  before  Sir 
Wilfull  is  ready.     [Exeunt  all  but  Mrs.  Marwood  and 

Fainall. 

Fain.  Why  then.  Foible's  a  bawd,  an  arrant,  rank, 
match-making  bawd:  and  I,  it  seems,  am  a  husband,  a 
rank  husband;   and  my  wife  a  very  arrant,  rank  wife  [340 

—  all  in  the  way  of  the  world.  'Sdeath,  to  be  a  cuckold 
by  anticipation,  a  cuckold  in  embryo!  sure  I  was  born 
with  budding  antlers,  like  a  young  satyr,  or  a  citizen's 
child.  'Sdeath!  to  be  outwitted  —  to  be  out-jilted  — 
out-matrimony 'd!  —  If  I  had  kept  my  speed  like  a 
stag,  'twere  somewhat  —  but  to  crawl  after,  with  my 
horns,  like  a  snail,    and  be   outstripped   by   my  wife 

—  'tis  scurvy  wedlock.  348 
Mrs.  Mar.   Then  shake  it  off;   you  have  often  wished 

for  an  opportunity  to  part  —  and  now  you  have  it. 
But  first  prevent  their  plot  —  the  half  of  Millamant's 
fortune  is  too  considerable  to  be  parted  with,  to  a  foe, 
to  Mirabell. 

Fain.  Damn  him!  that  had  been  mine  —  had  you  not 
made  that  fond  discovery  —  that  had  been  forfeited,  had 
they  been  married.  My  wife  had  added  lustre  to  my 
horns  by  that  increase  of  fortune;  I  could  have  worn  'em 
tipped  with  gold,  though  my  forehead  had  been  furnished 
like  a  deputy-lieutenant's  hall."  359 


SCENE  III]       THE   WAY    OF    THE   WORLD  323 

Mrs.  Mar.  They  may  prove  a  cap  of  maintenance"  to 
you  still,  if  you  can  away  with  your  wife.  And  she's 
no  worse  than  when  you  had  her  —  I  dare  swear  she  had 
given  up  her  game  before  she  was  married. 

Fain.    Hum!  that  may  be. 

Mrs.  Afar.  You  married  her  to  keep  you;  and  if  you 
can  contrive  to  have  her  keep  you  better  than  you  ex- 
pected, why  should  you  not  keep  her  longer  than  you 
intended  ? 

Fain.   The  means,  the  means.  36g 

Mrs.  Mar.  Discover  to  my  lady  your  wife's  conduct; 
threaten  to  part  with  her !  —  my  lady  loves  her,  and  will 
come  to  any  composition  to  save  her  reputation.  Take 
the  opportunity  of  breaking  it,  just  upon  the  discovery 
of  this  imposture.  My  lady  will  be  enraged  beyond 
bounds,  and  sacrifice  niece,  and  fortune,  and  all,  at 
that  conjuncture.  And  let  me  alone  to  keep  her 
warm;  if  she  should  flag  in  her  part,  I  will  not  fail  to 
prompt  her. 

Fain.    Faith,  this  has  an  appearance.  37g 

Mrs.  Mar.  I'm  sorry  I  hinted  to  my  lady  to  endeavour 
a  match  between  Millamant  and  Sir  Wilfull;  that  may  be 
an  obstacle. 

Fain.  Oh,  for  that  matter,  leave  me  to  manage  him: 
I'll  disable  him  for  that;  he  will  drink  like  a  Dane;  after 
dinner,  I'll  set  his  hand  in." 

Mrs.  Mar.  Well,  how  do  you  stand  affected  towards 
your  lady?  "  387 

Fain.  Why,  faith,  I'm  thinking  of  it.  —  Let  me  see  — 
I  am  married  already,  so  that's  over:  my  wife  has  played 
the  jade  with  me  —  well,  that's  over  too:  I  never  loved 
her,  or  if  I  had,  why  that  would  have  been  over  too  by 
this  time  —  jealous  of  her  I  cannot  be,  for  1  am  certain; 
so  there's  an  end  of  jealousy:  weary  of  her  I  am,  and 
shall  be  —  no,  there's  no  end  of  that  —  no,  no,  that  were 
too  much  to  hope.  Thus  far  concerning  my  repose;  now 
for  my  reputation.     As  to  my  own,  I  married  not  for  it, 


324  THE   WAY    OF    THE    WORLD  [act  hi 

SO  that's  out  of  the  question;  and  as  to  my  part  in  my 
wife's  —  why,  she  had  parted  with  liers  before;  so  bring- 
ing none  to  me,  she  can  take  none  from  me;  'tis  against 
all  rule  of  play,  that  I  should  lose  to  one  who  has  not 
wherewithal  to  stake.  401 

Mrs.  Mar.  Besides,  you  forgot,  marriage  i^  honour- 
able. 

Fain.  Hum,  faith,  and  that's  well  thought  on;  mar- 
riage is  honourable  as  you  say;  and  if  so,  wherefore 
should  cuckoldom  be  a  discredit,  being  derived  from  so 
honourable  a  root? 

Mrs.  Mar.  Nay,  I  know  not;  if  the  root  be  honourable, 
why  not  the  branches? 

Fain.  So,  so,  why  this  point's  clear  —  well,  how  do  we 
proceed?  411 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  will  contrive  a  letter  which  shall  be 
delivered  to  my  lady  at  the  time  when  that  rascal  who 
is  to  act  Sir  Rowland  is  with  her.  It  shall  come  as  from 
an  unknown  hand  —  for  the  less  I  appear  to  know  of 
the  truth,  the  better  I  can  play  the  incendiary.  Besides, 
I  would  not  have  Foible  provoked  if  I  could  help  it  — 
because  you  know  she  knows  some  passages  —  nay,  I 
expect  all  will  come  out  —  but  let  the  mine  be  sprung 
first,  and  then  I  care  not  if  I  am  discovered.  420 

Fain.  If  the  worst  come  to  the  worst  —  I'll  turn  my 
wife  to  grass  — ■  I  have  already  a  deed  of  settlement  of  the 
best  part  of  her  estate;  which  I  wheedled  out  of  her; 
and  that  you  shall  partake  at  least. 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  hope  you  are  convinced  that  I  hate 
Mirabell  now;  you'll  be  no  more  jealous  ? 

Fain.  Jealous !  no  —  by  this  kiss  —  let  husbands  be 
jealous;  but  let  the  lover  still  believe;  or  if  he  doubt, 
let  it  be  only  to  endear  his  pleasure,  and  prepare  the  joy 
that  follows,  when  he  proves  his  mistress  true.  But 
let  husbands'  doubts  convert  to  endless  jealousy;  or  if 
they  have  belief,  let  it  corrupt  to  superstition  and  blind 
creduHty.     I  am  single,  and  will  herd  no  more  with  'em. 


SCENE  III]       THE    WAY    OF   THE    WORLD  325 

True,  I  wear  the  badge,  but  I'll  disown  the  order.  And 
since  I  take  my  leave  of  'em,  I  care  not  if  I  leave  'em  a 
common  motto  to  their  common  crest:  436 

All  husbands  must  or  pain  or  shame  endure; 
The  wise  too  jealous  are,  fools  too  secure. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  THE   FOURTH 

Scene  I 

A  Room  in  Lady  Wishfort's  House 
Lady  Wishfort  and  Foible 

Lady  Wish.  Is  Sir  Rowland  coming,  sayest  thou, 
Foible?     And  are  things  in  order? 

Foib.  Yes,  madam,  I  have  put  wax  lights  in  the 
sconces,  and  placed  the  footmen  in  a  row  in  the  hall, 
in  their  best  liveries,  with  the  coachman  and  postilion  to 
fill  up  the  equipage. 

Lady  Wish.  Have  you  pulvilled  the  coachman  and 
postilion,  that  they  may  not  stink  of  the  stable  when 
Sir  Rowland  comes  by? 

Foib.   Yes,  madam.  lo 

Lady  Wish.  And  are  the  dancers  and  the  music  ready, 
that  he  may  be  entertained  in  all  points  with  corre- 
spondence to  his  passion? 

Foib.   All  is  ready,  madam. 

Lady  Wish.    And  —  well  —  how  do  I  look,  Foible  ? 

Foil.    Most  killing  well,  madam. 

Lady  Wish.  Well,  and  how  shall  I  receive  him?  in 
what  figure  shall  I  give  his  heart  the  first  impression? 
there  is  a  great  deal  in  the  first  impression.     Shall  I  sit? 

—  no,  I  won't  sit  —  I'll  walk  —  aye,  I'll  walk  from  the  [20 
door  upon  his  entrance;  and  then  turn  full  upon  him  — 
no,  that  will  be  too  sudden.     I'll  lie,  — aye,  I'll  lie  down 

—  I'll  receive  him  in  my  little  dressing-room,  there's  a 
couch  —  yes,  yes,  I'll  give  the  first  impression  on  a  couch. 

—  I  won't  lie  neither,  but  loll  and  lean  upon  one  elbow: 

326 


SCENE  I]         THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  327 

with  one  foot  a  little  dangling  off,  jogging  in  a  thoughtful 
way — yes — and  then  as  soon  as  he  appears,  start,  aye, 
start  and  be  surprised,  and  rise  to  meet  him  in  a  pretty 
disorder  —  yes  —  oh,  nothing  is  more  alluring  than  a 
levee  from  a  couch,  in  some  confusion:  it  shows  the  foot 
to  advantage,  and  furnishes  with  blushes,  and  recompos- 
ing  airs  beyond  comparison.     Hark!  there's  a  coach. 

Foib.    'Tis  he,  madam.  33 

Lady  Wish.  Oh,  dear!  —  Has  my  nephew  made  his 
addresses  to  Millamant?     I  ordered  him. 

Foib.  Sir  WilfuU  is  set  in  to  drinking,  madam,  in  the 
parlour. 

Lady  Wish.  Odds  my  life,  I'll  send  him  to  her.  Call 
her  down,  Foible;  bring  her  hither.  I'll  send  him  as  I 
go  —  when  they  are  together,  then  come  to  me,  Foible, 
that  I  may  not  be  too  long  alone  with  Sir  Rowland.    41 

[Exit. 

Enter  Mrs.  Millamant  and  Mrs.  Fainall 

Foib.  Madam,  I  stayed  here,  to  tell  your  ladyship  that 
Mr.  Mirabell  has  waited  this  half-hour  for  an  opportunity 
to  talk  with  you:  though  my  lady's  orders  were  to  leave 
you  and  Sir  WilfuU  together.  Shall  I  tell  Mr.  Mirabell 
that  you  are  at  leisure? 

Mrs.  Mil.  No  —  what  would  the  dear  man  have?  I 
am  thoughtful,  and  would  amuse  myself  —  bid  him  come 
another  time. 

"  There  never  yet  was  woman  made  so 

Nor  shall,  but  to  be  cursed.^' 

[Repeating,  and  walking  about. 
That's  hard ! 

Mrs.  Fain.  You  are  very  fond  of  Sir  John  Suckling  " 
to-day,  Millamant,  and  the  poets. 

Mrs.  Mil.    He?     Aye,  and  filthy  verses  —  so  I  am. 
Foib.    Sir  Wilful!  is  coming,  madam.     Shall  I  send 
Mr.  Mirabell  away? 


328  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  iv 

Mrs.  Mil.  Aye,  if  you  please,  Foible,  send  him  away — 
or  send  him  hither  —  just  as  you  will,  dear  Foible.  —  I 
think  I'll  see  him — shall  I?     Aye,  let  the  wretch  come. 

[Exit  Foible. 
"  Thyrsis,  a  youth  of  the  inspired  train.'^  °         6i 

[Repeating. 
Dear  Fainall,  entertain  Sir  Wilf  ull  —  thou  hast  philosophy 
to  undergo  a  fool,  thou  art  married  and  hast  patience  —  I 
would  confer  with  my  own  thoughts. 

Mrs.  Fain.  I  am  obUged  to  you,  that  you  would  make 
me  your  proxy  in  this  affair;  but  I  have  business  of  my 
own. 

Enter  Sir  Wilfull 

Mrs.  Fain.  O  Sir  Wilfull,  you  are  come  at  the  critical 
instant.  There's  your  mistress  up  to  the  ears  in  love 
and  contemplation;  pursue  your  point  now  or  never.  70 

Sir  Wil.  Yes ;  my  aunt  will  have  it  so  —  I  would  gladly 
have  been  encouraged  with  a  bottle  or  two,  because  I'm 
somewhat  wary  at  first  before  I  am  acquainted.  —  [This 
while  MiLLAMANT  walks  about  repeating  to  herself.]  —  But 
I  hope,  after  a  time,  I  shall  break  my  mind  —  that  is, 
upon  further  acquaintance  —  so  for  the  present,  cousin, 
I'll  take  my  leave  —  if  so  be  you'll  be  so  kind  to  make 
my  excuse,  I'll  return  to  my  company  — 

Mrs.  Fain.  Oh,  fie.  Sir  Wilf  ull !  What,  you  must  not 
be  daunted.  80 

Sir  Wil.  Daunted!  no,  that's  not  it,  it  is  not  so  much 
for  that  —  for  if  so  be  that  I  set  on't,  I'll  do't.  But  only 
for  the  present,  'tis  sufficient  till  further  acquaintance, 
that's  all  —  your  servant. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Nay,  I'll  swear  you  shall  never  lose  so 
favourable  an  opportunity,  if  I  can  help  it.  I'll  leave 
you  together,  and  lock  the  door.  [Exit. 

Sir  Wil.  Nay,  nay,  cousin  —  I  have  forgot  my  gloves 
—  what  d'ye  do?  —  S'heart,  a'has  locked  the  door  indeed, 
I  think  —  nay.  Cousin  Fainall,  open  the  door  —  pshaw, 


SCENE  I]         THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  329 

what  a  vixen  trick  is  this?  —  Nay,  now  a'has  seen  me 
too.  —  Cousin,  I  made  bold  to  pass  through  as  it  were  — 
I  think  this  door's  enchanted!  93 

Mrs.  Mil.    [Repeating.] 

"I  prithee  spare  me,  gentle  boy, 
Press  me  no  more  for  that  slight  toy.^^^ 

Sir  Wil.   Anan?      Cousin,  your  servant. 
Mrs.  Mil.    [Repeating.] 

"  That  foolish  trifle  of  a  heart." 
SirWilfuU! 

Sir  Wil.  Yes  —  your  servant.  No  offence,  I  hope, 
cousin.  100 

Mrs.  Mil.    [Repeating.] 

"/  swear  it  will  not  do  its  part, 
Though  thou  dost  thine,  employest  thy  power  and 
art.'' 

Natural,  easy  Suckling! 

Sir  Wil.  Anan?  Suckling!  no  such  suckling  neither, 
cousin,  nor  stripling:  I  thank  Heaven,  I'm  no  minor. 

Mrs.  Mil.   Ah,  rustic,  ruder  than  Gothic! 

Sir  Wil.  Well,  well,  I  shall  understand  your  lingo  one 
of  these  days,  cousin;  in  the  meanwhile  I  must  answer  in 
plain  English. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Have  you  any  business  with  me,  Sir  Wil- 
full? 

Sir  Wil.  Not  at  present,  cousin — yes,  I  make  bold  to 
see,  to  come  and  know  if  that  how  you  were  disposed  to 
fetch  a  walk  this  evening,  if  so  be  that  I  might  not  be 
troublesome,  I  would  have  sought  a  walk  with  you. 

Mrs.  Mil.   A  walk!  what  then? 

Sir  Wil.  Nay,  nothing  —  only  for  the  walk's  sake, 
that's  all. 

Mrs.  Mil.   I  nauseate  walking;    'tis  a  country  diver- 


330  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  iv 

sion;  I  loathe  the  country,  and  everything  that  relates 
to  it.  121 

SirWil.  Indeed!  ha!  Look  ye,  look  ye,  you  do?  Nay, 
»■  tis  like  you  may  —  here  are  choice  of  pastimes  here  in 
town,  as  plays  and  the  like;  that  must  be  confessed 
indeed. 

Mrs.  Mil.   Ah,  Vetourdl!     I  hate  the  town  too. 

Sir  Wil.  Dear  heart,  that's  much  —  ha!  that  you 
should  hate  'em  both!  Ha!  'tis  like  you  may;  there  are 
some  can't  relish  the  town,  and  others  can't  away  with 
the  country  —  'tis  like  you  may  be  one  of  those,  cousin. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  yes,  'tis  like  I  may.  —  You 
have  nothing  further  to  say  to  me?  132 

Sir  Wil.  Not  at  present,  cousin.  —  'Tis  like  when  I 
have  an  opportunity  to  be  more  private  —  I  may  break 
my  mind  in  some  measure  —  I  conjecture  you  partly 
guess  —  however,  that's  as  time  shall  try  —  but  spare 
to  speak  and  spare  to  speed,  as  they  say. 

Mrs.  Mil.  If  it  is  of  no  great  importance.  Sir  Wilfull, 
you  will  oblige  me  to  leave  me;  I  have  just  now  a  little 
business  —  140 

Sir  Wil.  Enough,  enough,  cousin:  yes,  yes,  all  a  case  " 
—  when  you're  disposed:  now's  as  well  as  another  time; 
and  another  time  as  well  as  now.  All's  one  for  that  — 
yes,  yes,  if  your  concerns  call  you,  there's  no  haste;  it 
will  keep  cold,  as  they  say.  —  Cousin,  your  servant  —  I 
think  this  door's  locked. 

Mrs.  Mil.   You  may  go  this  way,  sir. 

Sir  Wil.  Your  servant;  then  with  your  leave  I'll  re- 
turn to  my  company.  {Exit. 

Mrs.  Mil.   Aye,  aye;   ha!  ha!  ha!  150 

"Like  Phoebus  sung  the  no  less  amorous  boy.'"  " 

Enter  Mirabell 

Mir.  "Like  Daphne  she,  as  lovely  and  as  coy.''  Do 
you  lock  yourself  up  from  me,  to  make  my  search  more 


SCENE  I]         THE   WAY   OF    THE    WORLD  33 1 

curious?  or  is  this  pretty  artifice  contrived  to  signify  that 
here  the  chase  must  end,  and  my  pursuits  be  crowned? 
For  you  can  fly  no  further. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Vanity!  no  —  I'll  fly,  and  be  followed  to 
the  last  moment.  Though  I  am  upon  the  very  verge  of 
matrimony,  I  expect  you  should  soUcit  me  as  much  as  if 
I  were  wavering  at  the  grate  of  a  monastery,  with  one 
foot  over  the  threshold.  I'll  be  solicited  to  the  very 
last,  nay,  and  afterwards.  162 

Mir.    What,  after  the  last? 

Mrs.  Mil.  Oh,  I  should  think  I  was  poor  and  had 
nothing  to  bestow,  if  I  were  reduced  to  an  inglorious 
ease,  and  freed  from  the  agreeable  fatigues  of  solicita- 
tion. 

Mir.  But  do  not  you  know,  that  when  favours  are 
conferred  upon  instant  and  tedious  solicitation,  that  they 
diminish  in  their  value,  and  that  both  the  giver  loses  the 
grace,  and  the  receiver  lessens  his  pleasure?  171 

Mrs.  Mil.  It  may  be  in  things  of  common  appUca- 
tion; "  but  never  sure  in  love.  Oh,  I  hate  a  lover  that 
can  dare  to  think  he  draws  a  moment's  air,  independent 
of  the  bounty  of  his  mistress.  There  is  not  so  impudent 
a  thing  in  nature,  as  the  saucy  look  of  an  assured  man, 
confident  of  success.  The  pedantic  arrogance  of  a  very 
husband  has  not  so  pragmatical  an  air.  Ah!  I'll  never 
marry,  unless  I  am  first  made  sure  of  my  will  and  pleasure. 
Mir.  Would  you  have  'em  both  before  marriage?  or 
will  you  be  contented  with  the  first  now,  and  stay  for 
the  other  till  after  grace?  182 

Mrs.  Mil.  Ah!  don't  be  impertinent. —  My  dear 
liberty,  shall  I  leave  thee?  my  faithful  soUtude,  my  dar- 
ling contemplation,  must  I  bid  you  then  adieu?  Ay-h 
adieu  —  my  morning  thoughts,  agreeable  wakings,  in- 
dolent slumbers,  all  ye  douceurs,  ye  sommeils  dii  matin,^ 
adieu?  —  I  can't  do't,  'tis  more  than  impossible  —  posi- 
tively, Mirabell,  I'll  lie  abed  in  a  morning  as  long  as  I 
please.  190 


332  THE   WAY   OF   THE    WORLD  [act  iv 

Mir.   Then  I'll  get  up  in  a  morning  as  early  as  I  please. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Ah !  idle  creature,  get  up  when  you  will  — 
and  d'ye  hear,  I  won't  be  called  names  after  I'm  married; 
positively  I  won't  be  called  names. 

Mir.    Names ! 

Mrs.  Mil.  Aye,  as  wife,  spouse,  my  dear,  joy,  jewel, 
love,  sweetheart,  and  the  rest  of  that  nauseous  cant,  in 
which  men  and  their  wives  are  so  fulsomely  familiar  —  I 
shall  never  bear  that  —  good  Mirabell,  don't  let  us  be 
famihar  or  fond,  nor  kiss  before  folks,  like  my  Lady  [200 
Fadler  and  Sir  Francis:  nor  go  to  Hyde  Park  together 
the  first  Sunday  in  a  new  chariot,  to  provoke  eyes  and 
whispers,  and  then  never  to  be  seen  there  together  again ; 
as  if  we  were  proud  of  one  another  the  first  week,  and 
ashamed  of  one  another  ever  after.  Let  us  never  visit 
together,  nor  go  to  a  play  together;  but  let  us  be  very 
strange  and  well-bred:  let  us  be  as  strange  as  if  we  had 
been  married  a  great  while;  and  as  well-bred  as  if  we 
were  not  married  at  all. 

Mir.  Have  you  any  more  conditions  to  offer?  Hith- 
erto your  demands  are  pretty  reasonable.  211 

Mrs.  Mil.  Trifles!  —  As  liberty  to  pay  and  receive 
visits  to  and  from  whom  I  please;  to  write  and  receive 
letters,  without  interrogatories  or  wry  faces  on  your  part; 
to  wear  what  I  please;  and  choose  conversation  with 
regard  only  to  my  own  taste ;  to  have  no  obligation  upon 
me  to  converse  with  wits  that  I  don't  like,  because  they 
are  your  acquaintance:  or  to  be  intimate  with  fools,  be- 
cause they  may  be  your  relations.  Come  to  dinner  when 
I  please;  dine  in  my  dressing-room  when  I'm  out  [220 
of  humour,  without  giving  a  reason.  To  have  my  closet 
inviolate;  to  be  sole  empress  of  my  tea-table,  which  you 
must  never  presume  to  approach  without  first  asking 
leave.  And  lastly,  wherever  I  am,  you  shall  always 
knock  at  the  door  before  you  come  in.  These  articles 
subscribed,  if  I  continue  to  endure  you  a  httle  longer, 
I  may  by  degrees  dwindle  into  a  wife. 


SCENE  I]         THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  333 

Mir.  Your  bill  of  fare  is  something  advanced  in  this 
latter  account.  —  Well,  have  I  liberty  to  offer  conditions 
—  that  when  you  are  dwindled  into  a  wife,  I  may  not  be 
beyond  measure  enlarged  into  a  husband?  231 

Mrs,  Mil.  You  have  free  leave;  propose  your  utmost, 
speak  and  spare  not. 

Mir.  I  thank  you.  —  Imprimis  then,  I  covenant,  that 
your  acquaintance  be  general;  that  you  admit  no  sworn 
confidant,  or  intimate  of  your  own  sex;  no  she-friend  to 
screen  her  affairs  under  your  countenance,  and  tempt  you 
to  make  trial  of  a  mutual  secrecy.  No  decoy-duck  to 
wheedle  you  a  fop-scrambling  to  the  play  in  a  mask  — 
then  bring  you  home  in  a  pretended  fright,  when  you 
think  you  shall  be  found  out  —  and  rail  at  me  for  missing 
the  play,  and  disappointing  the  frolic  which  you  had  to 
pick  me  up,  and  prove  my  constancy.  243 

Mrs.  Mil.  Detestable  imprimis!  I  go  to  the  play  in  a 
mask ! 

Mir.  Item,  I  article,  that  you  continue  to  like  your 
own  face,  as  long  as  I  shall:  and  while  it  passes  current 
with  me,  that  you  ende^-vour  not  to  new-coin  it.  To 
which  end,  together  with  all  vizards  for  the  day,  I  pro- 
hibit all  masks  for  the  night,  made  of  oiled-skins,  and  [250 
I  know  not  what  — hogs'  bones,  hares'  gall,  pig- water, 
and  the  marrow  of  a  roasted  cat."  In  short,  I  forbid  all 
commerce  with  the  gentlewoman  in  what  d'ye  call  it 
court.  Item,  I  shut  my  doors  against  all  bawds  with 
baskets,  and  pennyworths  of  muslin,  china,  fans,  at- 
lases, etc.  —  Item,  when  you  shall  be  breeding  — 

Mrs.  Mil.    Ah!  name  it  not. 

Mir.  Which  may  be  presumed  with  a  blessing  on  our 
endeavours  — 

Mrs.  Mil.     Odious  endeavours!  260 

Mir.  I  denounce  against  all  strait  lacing,  squeezing  for 
a  shape,  till  you  mould  my  boy's  head  like  a  sugar-loaf, 
and  instead  of  a  man-child,  make  me  father  to  a  crooked 
billet.     Lastly,  to  the  dominion  of  the  tea-table  I  submit 


334  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  iv 

—  but  with  proviso,  that  you  exceed  not  in  your  prov- 
ince; but  restrain  yourself  to  native  and  simple  tea- 
table  drinks,  as  tea,  chocolate,  and  coffee:  as  likewise  to 
genuine  and  authorized  tea-table  talk  —  such  as  mending 
of  fashions,  spoiling  reputations,  railing  at  absent  friends, 
and  so  forth  —  but  that  on  no  account  you  encroach  [270 
upon  the  men's  prerogative,  and  presume  to  drink 
healths,  or  toast  fellows;  for  prevention  of  which  I 
banish  all  foreign  forces,  all  auxiliaries  to  the  tea-table, 
as  orange-brandy,  all  aniseed,  cinnamon,  citron,  and 
Barbadoes  waters,'^  together  with  ratafia,  and  the  most 
noble  spirit  of  clary  —  but  for  cowslip  wine,  poppy  water, 
and  all  dormitives,  those  I  allow.  —  These  provisoes 
admitted,  in  other  things  I  may  prove  a  tractable  and 
complying  husband.  279 

Mrs.  Mil.  O  horrid  provisoes!  filthy  strong- waters ! 
I  toast  fellows!  odious  men!  I  hate  your  odious  pro- 
visoes. 

Mir.  Then  we  are  agreed!  Shall  I  kiss  your  hand 
upon  the  contract?  And  here  comes  one  to  be  a  witness 
to  the  sealing  of  the  deed. 

Enter  Mrs.  Fainall 

Mrs.  Mil.  Fainall,  what  shall  I  do?  shall  I  have  him? 
I  think  I  must  have  him. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Aye,  aye,  take  him,  take  him,  what  should 
you  do?  289 

Mrs.  Mil.  Well  then  —  I'll  take  my  death  I'm  in  a 
horrid  fright  —  Fainall,  I  shall  never  say  it  —  well  —  I 
think  —  I'll  endure  you. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Fie!  fie!  have  him,  have  him,  and  tell 
him  so  in  plain  terms:  for  I  am  sure  you  have  a  mind 
to  him. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Are  you?  I  think  I  have  —  and  the  horrid 
man  looks  as  if  he  thought  so  too  —  well,  you  ridiculous 
thing  you,  I'll  have  you  —  I  won't  be  kissed,  nor  I  won't 


SCENE  I]         THE    WAY    OF   THE    WORLD  335 

be  thanked  —  here  kiss  my  hand  though.  —  So,  hold 
your  tongue  now,  don't  say  a  word.  300 

Mrs.  Fain.  Mirabell,  there's  a  necessity  for  your  obe- 
dience; you  have  neither  time  to  talk  nor  stay.  My 
mother  is  coming;  and  in  my  conscience  if  she  should 
see  you,  would  fall  into  fits,  and  maybe  not  recover  time 
enough  to  return  to  Sir  Rowland,  who,  as  Foible  tells 
me,  is  in  a  fair  way  to  succeed.  Therefore  spare  your 
ecstasies  for  another  occasion,  and  slip  down  the  back- 
stairs, where  Foible  waits  to  consult  you. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Aye,  go,  go.  In  the  meantime  I  suppose 
you  have  said  something  to  please  me.  310 

Mir    I  am  all  obedience.  [Exit. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Yonder  Sir  Wilfull's  drunk,  and  so  noisy 
that  my  mother  has  been  forced  to  leave  Sir  Rowland  to 
appease  him;  but  he  answers  her  only  with  singing 
and  drinking  —  what  they  may  have  done  by  this  time  I 
know  not;  but  Petulant  and  he  were  upon  quarreUing  as 
I  came  by. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Well,  if  Mirabell  should  not  make  a  good 
husband,  I  am  a  lost  thing,  for  I  find  I  love  him  violently. 

Mrs.  Fain.  So  it  seems;  for  you  mind  not  what's  said 
to  you.  —  If  you  doubt  him,  you  had  best  take  up  with 
Sir  Wilfull.  322 

Mrs.  Mil.  How  can  you  name  that  superannuated 
lubber?  foh! 

Enter  Witwoud 

Mrs.  Fain.  So,  is  the  fray  made  up,  that  you  have 
left  'em  ? 

Wit.  Left  'em?  I  could  stay  no  longer  —  I  have 
laughed  like  ten  christenings  —  I  am  tipsy  with  laughing 
—  if  I  had  stayed  any  longer  I  should  have  burst  —  I 
must  have  been  let  out  and  pieced  in  the  sides  like  an 
unsized  camlet."  —  Yes,  yes,  the  fray  is  composed;  my 
lady  came  in  like  a  noli  prosequi ^^  and  stopped  the  pro- 
ceedings. 333 


336  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  iv 

Mrs.  Mil.   What  was  the  dispute? 

Wit.  That's  the  jest;  there  was  no  dispute.  They 
could  neither  of  'em  speak  for  rage,  and  so  fell  a  sput- 
tering at  one  another  like  two  roasting  apples. 

Enter  Petulant,  drunk 

Wit.  Now,  Petulant,  all's  over,  all's  well.  Gad,  my 
head  begins  to  whim  it  about  —  why  dost  thou  not  speak? 
thou  art  both  as  drunk  and  as  mute  as  a  fish.  340 

Pet.  Look  you,  Mrs.  Millamant  —  if  you  can  love  me, 
dear  nymph  —  say  it  —  and  that's  the  conclusion  —  pass 
on,  or  pass  ofif  —  that's  all. 

Wit.  Thou  hast  uttered  volumes,  folios,  in  less  than 
decimo  sexto,  my  dear  Lacedemonian."  Sirrah,  Petulant, 
thou  art  an  epitomizer  of  words. 

Pet.   Witwoud  —  you  are  an  annihilator  of  sense. 

Wit.  Thou  art  a  retailer  of  phrases;  and  dost  deal  in 
remnants  of  remnants,  like  a  maker  of  pincushions  — 
thou  art  in  truth  (metaphorically  speaking)  a  speaker  of 
shorthand.  351 

Pet.  Thou  art  (without  a  figure)  just  one-half  of  an 
ass,  and  Baldwin  yonder,"  thy  half-brother,  is  the  rest.— 
A  Gemini  of  asses  split  would  make  just  four  of  you." 

Wit.  Thou  dost  bite,  my  dear  mustard  seed;  kiss  me 
for  that. 

Pet.  Stand  ofT!  —  I'll  kiss  no  more  males  — I  have 
kissed  your  twin  yonder  in  a  humour  of  reconciliation, 
till  he  [Hiccups]  rises  upon  my  stomach  like  a  radish. 

Mrs.  Mil.   Eh!  filthy  creature!  what  was  the  quarrel? 

Pet.  There  was  no  quarrel  —  there  might  have  been 
a  quarrel.  362 

Wit.  If  there  had  been  words  enow  between  'em  to 
have  expressed  provocation,  they  had  gone  together  by 
the  ears  like  a  pair  of  castanets. 

Pet.    You  were  the  quarrel. 

Mrs.  Mil.   Mel 


SCENK  II]       THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  337 

Pet.  If  I  have  a  humour  to  quarrel,  I  can  make  less 
matters  conclude  premises.  —  If  you  are  not  hand- 
some, what  then,  if  I  have  a  humour  to  prove  it?  If  I 
shall  have  my  reward,  say  so;  if  not,  fight  for  your  face 
the  next  time  yourself  —  I'll  go  sleep.  372 

Wit.  Do,  wrap  thyself  up  Hke  a  wood-louse,  and 
dream  revenge  —  and  hear  me,  if  thou  canst  learn  to 
write  by  to-morrow  morning,  pen  me  a  challenge.  —  I'll 
carry  it  for  thee. 

Pet.  Carry  your  mistress's  monkey  a  spider!  —  Go 
flea  dogs,  and  read  romances!  —  I'll  go  to  bed  to  my 
maid.  [Exit. 

Mrs.  Fain.  He's  horridly  drunk.  —  How  came  you  all 
in  this  pickle?  ,s8i 

Wit.  A  plot !  a  plot !  to  get  rid  of  the  night  —  your 
husband's  advice;   but  he  sneaked  oflf. 


Scene  II 

The  Dining-room  in  Lady  Wishfort's  House 

Sir  WiLFULL  drunk,  Lady  Wisiifort,  Witwoud,  Mrs. 
MiLLAMANT,  and  Mrs.  Fainall 

Lady  Wish.  Out  upon't,  out  upon't!  At  years  of  dis- 
cretion, and  comport  yourself  at  this  rantipole  rate! 

Sir  Wil.   No  offence,  aunt. 

Lady  Wish.  Offence!  as  I'm  a  person,  I'm  ashamed 
of  you  —  foh!  how  you  stink  of  wine!  D'ye  think  my 
niece  will  ever  endure  such  a  Borachio!"  you're  an  abso- 
lute Borachio. 

Sir  Wil.    Borachio? 

Lady  Wish.  At  a  time  when  you  should  commence  an 
amour,  and  put  your  best  foot  foremost  —  10 

Sir  Wit.  S'heart,  an  you  grutch  me  your  Hquor,  make 
a  bill  — give  me  more  drink,  and  take  my  purse  —  [Sings. 

CONGREVE —  22 


338  THE   WAY    OF   THE   WORLD  [act  iv 

'' Prithee  fill  me  the  glass, 

Till  it  laugh  in  my  face, 
With  ale  that  is  potent  and  mellow; 

He  that  whines  for  a  lass, 

Is  an  ignorant  ass, 
For  a  bumper  has  not  its  fellow." 

But  if  you  would  have  me  marry  my  cousin  —  say  the 
word,  and  I'll  do't  —  Wilfull  will  do't,  that's  the  word  — 
Wilfull  will  do't,  that's  my  crest  —  my  m.otto  I  have 
forgot.  22 

Lady  Wish.  My  nephew's  a  little  overtaken,  cousin  — 
but  'tis  with  drinking  your  health.  —  O'  my  word  you  are 
obliged  to  him. 

Sir  Wil.  In  vino  Veritas,  aunt.  —  If  I  drunk  your  health 
to-day,  cousin  —  I  am  a  Borachio.  But  if  you  have  a 
mind  to  be  married,  say  the  word,  and  send  for  the  piper; 
Wilfull  will  do't.  If  not,  dust  it  away,. and  let's  have 
t'other  round.  —  Tony!  —  Odds  heart,  where's  Tony!  — 
Tony's  an  honest  fellow;  but  he  spits  after  a  bumper, 
and  that's  a  fault.  —  [Sings. 

"Well  drink,  and  we'll  never  ha'  done,  boys,  33 

Ptit  the  glass  then  around  with  the  sun,  boys. 

Let  Apollo's  example  invite  us; 
For  he's  drunk  every  night. 
And  that  makes  him.  so  bright. 

That  he's  able  next  morning  to  light  us."  38 

The  sun's  a  good  pimple,  an  honest  soaker;  he  has  a 
cellar  at  your  Antipodes.  If  I  travel,  aunt,  I  touch  at 
your  Antipodes.  —  Your  Antipodes  are  a  good,  rascally 
sort  of  topsy-turvy  fellows:  if  I  had  a  bumper >  I'd  stand 
upon  my  head  and  drink  a  health  to  'em.  —  A  match  or 
no  match,  cousin  with  the  hard  name?  —  Aunt,  Wilfull 
will  do't.  If  she  has  her  maidenhead,  let  her  look  to't; 
if  she  has  not,  let  her  keep  her  own  counsel  in  the  mean- 
time, and  cry  out  at  the  nine  months'  end, 


SCENE  II]        THE    WAY    OF    THE    WORLD  339 

Mrs.  Mil.   Your  pardon,  madam,  I  can  stay  no  longer 

—  Sir  Wilfull  grows  very  powerful.     Eh!  how  he  smells! 
I  shall  be  overcome,  if  I  stay.  —  Come,  cousin.  50 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Millamant  and  Mrs.  Fainall. 
Lady  Wish.  Smells!  He  would  poison  a  tallow-chan- 
dler and  his  fainily!  Beastly  creature,  I  know  not  what 
to  do  with  him!  —  Travel,  quotha!  aye,  travel,  travel,  get 
thee  gone,  get  thee  gone,  get  thee  but  far  enough,  to  the 
Saracens,  or  the  Tartars,  or  the  Turks!  —  for  thou  art 
not  fit  to  live  in  a  Christian  commonwealth,  thou  beastly 
pagan !  57 

Sir  Wil.  Turks,  no;  no  Turks,  aunt:  your  Turks  are 
infidels,  and  beUeve  not  in  the  grape.  Your  Mahometan, 
your  Mussulman,  is  a  dry  stinkard  —  no  offence,  aunt. 
My  map  says  that  your  Turk  is  not  so  honest  a  man  as 
your  Christian.  I  cannot  find  by  the  map  that  your 
Mufti  is  orthodox  —  whereby  it  is  a  plain  case,  that 
orthodox  is  a  hard  word,  aunt,  and  [Hiccups]  Greek  for 
claret.  —  [Sings. 

"  To  drink  is  a  Christian  diversion, 
Unknown  to  the  Turk  or  the  Persian: 
Let  Mahometan  fools 
Live  by  heathenish  rules, 
And  be  damned  over  tea-cups  and  coffee.  70 

But  let  British  lads  sing. 
Crown  a  health  to  the  king, 
And  a  fig  for  your  sultan  and  sophy !  " 

Ah,  Tony! 

Enter  Foible,  who  whispers  to  Lady  Wishfort 

Lady  Wish.  [Aside  to  Foible.]  —  Sir  Rowland  im- 
patient? Good  lack!  what  shall  I  do  with  this  beastly 
tumbril?  —  [Aloud.]     Go  lie  down  and  sleep,  you  sot! 

—  or,  as  I'm  a  person,  I'll  have  you  bastinadoed  with 
broomsticks."  —  Call  up  the  wenches. 

Sir  Wil.   Ahey!  wenches,  where  are  the  wenches?    80 


340  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  iv 

Lady  Wish.  Dear  Cousin  Witwoud,  get  him  away,  and 
you  will  bind  me  to  you  inviolably.  I  have  an  affair  of 
moment  that  invades  me  with  some  precipitation  —  you 
will  oblige  me  to  all  futurity. 

Wit.  Come,  knight.  —  Pox  on  him,  I  don't  know 
what  to  say  to  him.  —  Will  you  go  to  a  cock-match? 

Sir  Wil.  With  a  wench,  Tony!  Is  she  a  shakebag, 
sirrah?     Let  me  bite  your  cheek  for  that. 

Wit.  Horrible!  he  has  a  breath  like  a  bagpipe!  — 
Aye,  aye;   come,  will  you  march,  my  Salopian?"  go 

Sir  Wil.  Lead  on,  little  Tony  —  I'll  follow  thee,  my 
Anthony,  my  Tantony,  sirrah,  thou  shalt  be  my  Tantony, 
and  I'll  be  thy  pig.  [Sings. 

"And  a  fig  for  your  sultan  and  sophy." 

[Exeunt  Sir  Wilfull  and  Witwoud. 
Lady  Wish.   This  will  never  do.     It  will  never  make 
a  match  —  at  least  before  he  has  been  abroad. 

Enter  Waitwell,  disguised  as  Sir  Rowland 

Lady  Wish.  Dear  Sir  Rowland,  I  am  confounded  with 
confusion  at  the  retrospection  of  my  own  rudeness!  —  I 
have  more  pardons  to  ask  than  the  pope  distributes  in 
the  year  of  jubilee.  But  I  hope,  where  there  is  likely  to 
be  so  near  an  alliance,  we  may  unbend  the  severity  of 
decorums,  and  dispense  with  a  little  ceremony.  102 

Wait.  My  impatience,  madam,  is  the  effect  of  my 
transport ;  and  till  I  have  the  possession  of  your  adorable 
person,  I  am  tantalized  on  the  rack;  and  do  but  hang, 
madam,  on  the  tenter  of  expectation. 

Lady  Wish.  You  have  excess  of  gallantry,  Sir  Row- 
land, and  press  things  to  a  conclusion  with  a  most  pre- 
vailing vehemence.  —  But  a  day  or  two  for  decency  of 
marriage  —  no 

Wait.   For  decency  of  funeral,  madam!    The  delay 


SCENE  II]       THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  34! 

will  break  my  heart  —  or,  if  that  should  fail,  I  shall  be 
poisoned.  My  nephew  will  get  an  inkling  of  my  designs, 
and  poison  me  —  and  I  would  willingly  starve  him  before 
I  die  —  I  would  gladly  go  out  of  the  world  with  that  satis- 
faction. —  That  would  be  some  comfort  to  me,  if  I  could 
but  live  so  long  as  to  be  revenged  on  that  unnatural 
viper!  118 

Lady  Wish.  Is  he  so  unnatural,  say  you?  Truly  I 
would  contribute  much  both  to  the  saving  of  your  life, 
and  the  accomplishment  of  your  revenge.  —  Not  that  I 
respect  myself,  though  he  has  been  a  perfidious  wretch 
to  me. 

Wait.    Perfidious  to  you! 

Lady  Wish.  O  Sir  Rowland,  the  hours  that  he  has 
died  away  at  my  feet,  the  tears  that  he  has  shed,  the 
oaths  that  he  has  sworn,  the  palpitations  that  he  has  felt, 
the  trances  and  the  tremblings,  the  ardours  and  the 
ecstasies,  the  kneelings  and  the  risings,  the  heart-heav- 
ings  and  the  handgripings,  the  pangs  and  the  pathetic 
regards  of  his  protesting  eyes!  —  Oh,  no  memory  can 
register!  132 

Wait.  What,  my  rival !  is  the  rebel  my  rival?  —  a' 
dies. 

Lady  Wish.  No,  don't  kill  him  at  once,  Sir  Rowland, 
starve  him  gradually,  inch  by  inch. 

Wait.  I'll  do't.  In  three  weeks  he  shall  be  barefoot; 
in  a  month  out  at  knees  with  begging  an  alms.  —  He 
shall  starve  upward  and  upward,  till  he  has  nothing  living 
but  his  head,  and  then  go  out  in  a  stink  like  a  candle's 
end  upon  a  save-all.  141 

Lady  Wish.  Well,  Sir  Rowland,  you  have  the  way  — 
you  are  no  novice  in  the  labyrinth  of  love  —  you  have  the 
clue.  —  But  as  I  am  a  person,  Sir  Rowland,  you  must  not 
attribute  my  yielding  to  any  sinister  appetite,  or  indiges- 
tion of  widowhood;  nor  impute  my  complacency  to  any 
lethargy  of  continence  —  I  hope  you  do  not  think  me 
prone  to  any  iteration  of  nuptials  — 


342  THE    WAY   OF    THE    WORLD  [act  iv 

Wait.    Far  be  it  from  me  —  i4g 

Lady  Wish.  If  you  do,  I  protest  I  must  recede  —  or 
think  that  I  have  made  a  prostitution  of  decorums;  but 
in  the  vehemence  of  compassion,  and  to  save  the  Ufa  of  a 
person  of  so  much  importance  — 

Wait.   I  esteem  it  so. 

Lady  Wish.   Or  else  you  wrong  my  condescension. 

Wait.   I  do  not,  I  do  not! 

Lady  Wish.    Indeed  you  do. 

Wait.   I  do  not,  fair  shrine  of  virtue! 

Lady  Wish.  If  you  think  the  least  scruple  of  carnaUty 
was  an  ingredient, —  i6o 

Wait.  Dear  madam,  no.  You  are  all  camphor  and 
frankincense,  all  chastity  and  odour. 

Lady  Wish.   Or  that  — 

Enter  Foible 

Foib.  Madam,  the  dancers  are  ready;  and  there's 
one  with  a  letter,  who  must  deliver  it  into  your  own 
hands. 

Lady  Wish.  Sir  Rowland,  will  you  give  me  leave? 
Think  favourably,  judge  candidly,  and  conclude  you 
have  found  a  person  who  would  suffer  racks  in  honour's 
cause,  dear  Sir  Rowland,  and  will  wait  on  you  inces- 
santly. [Exit. 

Wait.  Fie,  fie!  —  What  a  slavery  have  I  undergone! 
Spouse,  hast  thou  any  cordial?   I  want  spirits.  173 

Foib.  What  a  washy  rogue  art  thou,  to  pant  thus 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  lying  and  swearing  to  a  fine 
lady! 

Wait.  Oh,  she  is  the  antidote  to  desire!  Spouse,  thou 
wilt  fare  the  worse  for't  —  I  shall  have  no  appetite  to 
iteration  of  nuptials  this  eight-and-forty  hours.  —  By 
this  hand  I'd  rather  be  a  chairman  in  the  dog-days  — 
than  act  Sir  Rowland  till  this  time  to-morrow!  181 


SCENE  II]        THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  343 

Re-enter  Lady  Wishfort,  with  a  letter 

Lady  Wish.  Call  in  the  dancers.  —  Sir  Rowland,  we'll 
sit,  if  you  please,  and  see  the  entertainment.  [A  Dance.] 
Now,  with  your  permission,  Sir  Rowland,  I  will  peruse 
my  letter.  —  I  would  open  it  in  your  presence,  because  I 
would  not  make  you  uneasy.  If  it  should  make  you  un- 
easy, I  would  burn  it.  —  Speak,  if  it  does  —  but  you  may 
see  the  superscription  is  like  a  woman's  hand. 

Foib.  [Aside  to  Waitwell.]  By  Heaven!  Mrs. 
Marwood's,  I  know  it.  —  My  heart  aches  —  get  it  from 
her.  191 

Wait.  A  woman's  hand !  no,  madam,  that's  no  woman's 
hand,  I  see  that  already.  That's  somebody  whose  throat 
must  be  cut. 

Lady  Wish.  Nay,  Sir  Rowland,  since  you  give  me  a 
proof  of  your  passion  by  your  jealousy,  I  promise  you 
I'll  make  a  return,  by  a  frank  communication.  —  You 
shall  see  it  —  we'll  open  it  together  —  look  you  here.  — 
[Reads.]  —  "Madam,  though  unknown  to  you"  —  Look 
you  there,  'tis  from  nobody  that  I  know  —  "I  have  that 
honour  for  your  character,  that  I  think  myself  obliged 
to  let  you  know  you  are  abused.  He  who  pretends  to 
be  Sir  Rowland,  is  a  cheat  and  a  rascal."  —  Oh,  Heavens! 
what's  this?  204 

Foib.    [Aside.]     Unfortunate!  all's  ruined! 

Wait.  How,  how,  let  me  see,  let  me  see!  —  [Reads.] 
"A  rascal,  and  disguised  and  suborned  for  that  impos- 
ture," —  O  villainy!  O  villainy!  —  "by  the  contrivance 
of—" 

Lady  Wish.   I  shall  faint,  I  shall  die,  oh!  210 

Foib.  [Aside  to  Waitwell.]  Say  'tis  your  nephew's 
hand  —  quickly,' his  plot,  swear  it,  swear  it! 

Wait.  Here's  a  villain !  Madam,  don't  you  perceive 
it,  don't  you  see  it? 

Lady  Wish.  Too  well,  too  well!  I  have  seen  too 
much. 


344  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  iv 

Wait.  I  told  you  at  first  I  knew  the  hand.  —  A  woman's 
hand!  The  rascal  writes  a  sort  of  a  large  hand;  your 
Roman  hand  —  I  saw  there  was  a  throat  to  be  cut  pres- 
ently. If  he  were  my  son,  as  he  is  my  nephew,  I'd 
pistol  him!  221 

Foib.  0  treachery!  —  But  are  you  sure.  Sir  Rowland, 
it  is  his  writing? 

Wait.  Sure!  am  I  here?  Do  I  live?  Do  I  love  this 
pearl  of  India?  I  have  twenty  letters  in  my  pocket 
from  him  in  the  same  character. 

Lady  Wish.    How! 

Foib.  Oh,  what  luck  it  is.  Sir  Rowland,  that  you  were 
present  at  this  juncture!  —  This  was  the  business  that 
brought  Mr.  Mirabell  disguised  to  Madam  Millamant 
this  afternoon.  I  thought  something  was  contriving, 
when  he  stole  by  me  and  would  have  hid  his  face.       232 

Lady  Wish.  How,  how!  —  I  heard  the  villain  was  in 
the  hduse  indeed;  and  now  I  remember,  my  niece  went 
away  abruptly,  when  Sir  Wilfull  was  to  have  made  his 
addresses. 

Foib.  Then,  then,  madam,  Mr.  Mirabell  waited  for 
her  in  her  chamber!  but  I  would  not  tell  your  lady- 
ship to  discompose  you  when  you  were  to  receive 
Sir  Rowland.  240 

Wait.    Enough,  his  date  is  short. 

Foib.    No,  good  Sir  Rowland,  don't  incur  the  law. 

Wait.  Law!  I  care  not  for  law.  I  can  but  die,  and 
'tis  in  a  good  cause.  —  My  lady  shall  be  satisfied  of  my 
truth  and  innocence,  though  it  cost  me  my  life. 

Lady  Wish.  No,  dear  Sir  Rowland,  don't  fight;  if  you 
should  be  killed  I  must  never  show  my  face;  or  hanged 
—  oh,  consider  my  reputation.  Sir  Rowland!  —  No,  you 
shan't  fight  —  I'll  go  in  and  examine  my  niece;  I'll  make 
her  confess.  I  conjure  you,  Sir  Rowland,  by  all  your 
love,  not  to  fight.  251 

Wait.  I  am  charmed,  madani,  I  obey.  But  some 
proof  you  must  let  me  give  you;   I'll  go  for  a  black  box, 


SCENE  II]       THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  345 

which  contains  the  writings  of  my  whole  estate,  and 
deliver  that  into  your  hands. 

Lady  Wish.  Aye,  dear  Sir  Rowland,  that  will  be  some 
comfort,  bring  the  black  box. 

Wait.  And  may  I  presume  to  bring  a  contract  to  be 
signed  this  night?  may  I  hope  so  far?  250 

Lady  Wish.  Bring  what  you  will;  but  come  alive, 
pray  come  alive.     Oh,  this  is  a  happy  discovery! 

Wait.  Dead  or  alive  I'll  come  —  and  married  we  will 
be  in  spite  of  treachery;  aye,  and  get  an  heir  that  shall 
defeat  the  last  remaining  glimpse  of  hope  in  my  aban- 
doned nephew.     Come,  my  buxom  widow: 

Ere  long  you  shall  substantial  proofs  receive, 
That  Vtn  an  errant  knight  — 

Foib.   [Aside.]  Or  errant  knave. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  THE   FIFTH 

Scene  I 

A  Room  in  Lady  Wishfort's  House 

Lady  Wishfort  and  Foible 

Lady  Wish.  Out  of  my  house,  out  of  my  house,  thou 
viper!  thou  serpent,  that  I  have  fostered!  thou  bosom 
traitress,  that  I  raised  from  nothing!  —  Begone!  begone! 
begone!  —  go!  go! — -That  I  took  from  washing  of  old 
gauze  and  weaving  of  dead  hair,  with  a  bleak  blue  nose 
over  a  chafing-dish  of  starved  embers,  and  dining  behind 
a  traverse  rag,  in  a  shop  no  bigger  than  a  bird-cage!  — 
Go,  go!  starve  again,  do,  do! 

Foih.    Dear  madam,  I'll  beg  pardon  on  my  knees,     g 

Lady  Wish.  Away!  out!  out!  —  Go,  set  up  for  your- 
self again!  — Do,  drive  a  trade,  do,  with  your  three- 
pennyworth  of  small  ware,  flaunting  upon  a  packthread, 
under  a  brandy-seller's  bulk,  or  against  a  dead  wall  by  a 
ballad-monger!"  Go,  hang  out  an  old  Frisoneer  gorget," 
with  a  yard  of  yellow  colbertine  again!  Do;  an  old 
gnawed  mask,  two  rows  of  pins,  and  a  child's  fiddle;  a 
glass  necklace  with  the  beads  broken,  and  a  quilted 
night-cap  with  one  ear !  Go,  go,  drive  a  trade !  —  These 
were  your  commodities,  you  treacherous  trull!  this  was 
the  merchandise  you  dealt  in  when  I  took  you  into  my 
house,  placed  you  next  myself,  and  made  you  governante 
of  my  whole  family!  You  have  forgot  this,  have  you, 
now  you  have  feathered  your  nest?  23 

Foih.   No,  no,  dear  madam.     Do  but  hear  me,  have 

346 


SCENE  I]         THE   WAY    OF    THE    WORLD  347 

but  a  moment's  patience,  I'll  confess  all.  Mr.  Mirabell 
seduced  me;  I  am  not  the  first  that  he  has  wheedled 
with  his  dissembling  tongue;  your  ladyship's  own  wis- 
dom has  been  deluded  by  him;  then  how  should  I,  a 
poor  ignorant,  defend  myself?  O  madam,  if  you  knew 
but  what  he  promised  me,  and  how  he  assured  me  your 
ladyship  should  come  to  no  damage !  —  Or  else  the  wealth 
of  the  Indies  should  not  have  bribed  me  to  conspire 
against  so  good,  so  sweet,  so  kind  a  lady  as  you  have 
been  to  me.  34 

Lady  Wish.  No  damage!  What,  to  betray  me,  and 
marry  me  to  a  cast  servingman ! "  to  make  me  a  recep- 
tacle, an  hospital  for  a  decayed  pimp!  No  damage! 
O  thou  frontless  impudence,  more  than  a  big-bellied 
actress!  39 

Foib.  Pray,  do  but  hear  me,  madam;  he  could  not 
marry  your  ladyship,  madam.  —  No,  indeed,  his  marriage 
was  to  have  been  void  in  law,  for  he  was  married  to  me 
first,  to  secure  your  ladyship.  He  could  not  have  bedded 
your  ladyship;  for  if  he  had  consummated  with  your 
ladyship,  he  must  have  run  the  risk  of  the  law,  and  been 
put  upon  his  clergy." — Yes,  indeed,  I  inquired  of  the  law 
in  that  case  before  I  would  meddle  or  make."  47 

Lady  Wish.  What,  then,  I  have  been  your  property, 
have  I?  I  have  been  convenient  to  you,  it  seems!  — 
While  you  were  catering  for  Mirabell,  I  have  been  broker 
for  you!     What,  have  you  made  a  passive  bawd  of  me? 

—  This  exceeds  all  precedent;  I  am  brought  to  fine  uses, 
to  become  a  botcher  of  second-hand  marriages  between 
Abigails  and  Andrews!  "  —  I'll  couple  you!  —  Yes,  I'll 
baste  you  together,  you  and  your  Philander ! "  I'll  Duke's- 
place"  you,  as  I  am  a  person!  Your  turtle  is  in  custody 
already:  you  shall  coo  in  the  same  cage,  if  there  be  a 
constable  or  warrant  in  the  parish.  [Exit. 

Foib.  Oh,  that  ever  I  was  born!  Oh,  that  I  was  ever 
married! — A  bride!  —  aye,  I  shall  be  a  Bridewell-bride." 

—  Oh!  61 


348  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  v 

Enter  Mrs.  Fainall 

Mrs.  Fain.    Poor  Foible,  what's  the  matter? 

Foib.  O  madam,  my  lady's  gone  for  a  constable.  I 
shall  be  had  to  a  justice,  and  put  to  Bridewell  to  beat 
hemp.     Poor  Waitwell's  gone  to  prison  already. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Have  a  good  heart.  Foible;  Mirabell's 
gone  to  give  security  for  him.  This  is  all  Marwood's 
and  my  husband's  doing.  68 

Foib.  Yes,  yes;  I  know  it,  madam:  she  was  in  my 
lady's  closet,  and  overheard  all  that  you  said  to  me 
before  dinner.  She  sent  the  letter  to  my  lady;  and  that 
missing  effect,  Mr.  Fainall  laid  this  plot  to  arrest  Wait- 
well,  when  he  pretended  to  go  for  the  papers;  and  in 
the  meantime  Mrs.  Marwood  declared  all  to  my  lady. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Was  there  no  mention  made  of  me  in  the 
letter?  My  mother  does  not  suspect  my  being  in  the 
confederacy?  I  fancy  Marwood  has  not  told  her,  though 
she  has  told  my  husband. 

Foib.  Yes,  madam;  but  my  lady  did  not  see  that 
part;  we  stifled  the  letter  before  she  read  so  far  —  Has 
that  mischievous  devil  told  Mr.  Fainall  of  your  ladyship, 
then?  82 

Mrs.  Fain.  Aye,  all's  out — my  affair  with  Mirabell  — 
everything  discovered.  This  is  the  last  day  of  our  living 
together,  that's  my  comfort. 

Foib.  Indeed,  madam;  and  so  'tis  a  comfort  if  you 
knew  all  —  he  has  been  even  with  your  ladyship,  which 
I  could  have  told  you  long  enough  since,  but  I  loved  to 
keep  peace  and  quietness  by  my  goodwill.  I  had  rather 
bring  friends  together,  than  set  'em  at  distance:  but 
Mrs.  Marwood  and  he  are  nearer  related  than  ever  their 
parents  thought  for.  92 

Mrs.  Fain.  Sayest  thou  so.  Foible?  Canst  thou  prove 
this? 

Foib.  I  can  take  my  oath  of  it,  madam;  so  can  Mrs. 
Mincing.     We  have  had  many  a  fair  word  from  Madam 


SCENE  I]         THE    WAY   OF    THE    WORLD  349 

Marwood,  to  conceal  something  that  passed  in  our 
chamber  one  evening  when  you  were  at  Hyde  Park;  and 
we  were  thought  to  have  gone  a-walking,  but  we  went 
up  unawares;  though  we  were  sworn  to  secrecy,  too. 
Madam  Marwood  took  a  book  and  swore  us  upon  it,  but 
it  was'  but  a  book  of  poems.  So  long  as  it  was  not  a 
bible-oath,  we  may  break  it  with  a  safe  conscience.  103 
Mrs.  Fain.  This  discovery  is  the  most  opportune  thing 
I  could  wish.  —  Now,  Mincing! 

Enter  Mincing 

Min.  My  lady  would  speak  with  Mrs.  Foible,  mem. 
Mr.  Miraljell  is  with  her;  he  has  set  your  spouse  at 
liberty,  Mrs.  Foible,  and  would  have  you  hide  yourself  in 
my  lady's  closet  till  my  old  lady's  anger  is  abated.  Oh, 
my  old  lady  is  in  a  perilous  passion  at  something  Mr. 
Fainall  has  said;  he  swears,  and  my  old  lady  cries. 
There's  a  fearful  hurricane,  I  vow.  He  says,  mem,  how 
that  he'll  have  my  lady's  fortune  made  over  to  him,  or 
he'll  be  divorced.  114 

Mrs.  Fain.    Does  your  lady  or  Mirabell  know  that? 

Min.  Yes,  mem;  they  have  sent  me  to  see  if  Sir  Wil- 
fuU  be  sober,  and  to  bring  him  to  them.  My  lady  is 
resolved  to  have  him,  I  think,  rather  than  lose  such  a 
vast  sum  as  six  thousand  pounds.  —  Oh,  come,  Mrs. 
Foible,  I  hear  my  old  lady.  120 

Mrs.  Fain.  Foible,  you  must  tell  Mincing  that  she 
must  prepare  to  vouch  when  I  call  her. 

Foib.    Yes,  yes,  madam. 

Min.  Oh,  yes,  mem,  I'll  vouch  anything  for  your  lady- 
ship's service,  be  what  it  will. 

[Exeunt. 


350  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  v 

Scene  II 

Another  Room  in  Lady  Wishfort's  House 

Mrs.   Fainall,  Lady  Wishfort,  and  Mrs.  Marwood 

Lady  Wish.  Oh,  my  dear  friend,  how  can  I  enumerate 
the  benefits  that  I  have  received  from  your  goodness! 
To  you  I  owe  the  timely  discovery  of  the  false  vows  of 
Mirabell;  to  you  I  owe  the  detection  of  the  impostor  Sir 
Rowland.  And  now  you  are  become  an  intercessor  with 
my  son-in-law,  to  save  the  honour  of  my  house,  and  com- 
pound for  the  frailties  of  my  daughter.  Well,  friend,  you 
are  enough  to  reconcile  me  to  the  bad  world,  or  else  I 
would  retire  to  deserts  and  solitudes,  and  feed  harmless 
sheep  by  groves  and  purling  streams.  Dear  Marwood, 
let  us  leave  the  world,  and  retire  by  ourselves  and  be 
shepherdesses.  12 

Mrs.  Mar.  Let  us  first  dispatch  the  affair  in  hand, 
madam.  We  shall  have  leisure  to  think  of  retirement 
afterwards.     Here  is  one  who  is  concerned  in  the  treaty. 

Lady  Wish.  Oh,  daughter,  daughter!  is  it  possible  thou 
shouldst  be  my  child,  bone  of  my  bone,  and  flesh  of  my 
flesh,  and,  as  I  may  say,  another  me,  and  yet  transgress 
the  most  minute  particle  of  severe  virtue?  Is  it  possible 
you  should  lean  aside  to  iniquity,  who  have  been  cast  in 
the  direct  mould  of  virtue?  I  have  not  only  been  a 
mould  but  a  pattern  for  you,  and  a  model  for  you,  after 
you  were  brought  into  the  world.  23 

Mrs.  Fain.    I  don't  understand  your  ladyship. 

Lady  Wish.  Not  understand!  Why,  have  you  not 
been  naught?  have  you  not  been  sophisticated?  Not 
understand!  here  I  am  ruined  to  compound  for  your 
caprices  and  your  cuckoldoms.  I  must  pawn  my  plate 
and  my  jewels,  and  ruin  my  niece,  and  all  little  enough  — 

Mrs.  Fain.  I  am  wronged  and  abused,  and  so  are  you. 
'Tis  a  false  accusation,  as  false  as  hell,  as  false  as  your 


SCENE  II]        THE   WAY    OF    THE    WORLD  35 1 

friend  there,  aye,  or  your  friend's  friend,  my  false  hus- 
band. 33 

Mrs.  Mar.  My  friend,  Mrs.  Fainall!  your  husband 
my  friend!  what  do  you  mean? 

Mrs.  Fain.  I  know  what  I  mean,  madam,  and  so  do 
you;   and  so  shall  the  world  at  a  time  convenient. 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  so  passionate, 
madam.  More  temper  would  look  more  like  innocence. 
But  I  have  done.  I  am  sorry  my  zeal  to  serve  your  lady- 
ship and  family  should  admit  of  misconstruction,  or  make 
me  liable  to  affronts.  You  will  pardon  me,  madam,  if  I 
meddle  no  more  with  an  affair  in  which  I  am  not  person- 
ally concerned.  44 

Lady  Wish.  O  dear  friend,  I  am  so  ashamed  that  you 
should  meet  with  such  returns!  —  \To  Mrs.  Fainall.] 
You  ought  to  ask  pardon  on  your  knees,  ungrateful  crea- 
ture! she  deserves  more  from  you  than  all  your  life  can 
accomplish.  —  [To  Mrs.  Marwood.]  Oh,  don't  leave  me 
destitute  in  this  perplexity!  —  no,  stick  to  me,  my  good 
genius.  si 

Mrs.  Fain.  I  tell  you,  madam,  you  are  abused.  — 
Stick  to  you!  aye,  like  a  leech,  to  suck  your  best  blood 
—  she'll  drop  off  when  she's  full.  Madam,  you  shan't 
pawn  a  bodkin,  nor  part  with  a  brass  counter,"  in  composi- 
tion for  me.  I  defy  'em  all.  Let  'em  prove  their  asper- 
sions; I  know  my  own  innocence,  and  dare  stand  a 
trial.  [Exit. 

Lady  Wish.  Why,  if  she  should  be  innocent,  if  she 
should  be  wronged  after  all,  ha?  —  I  don't  know  what  [60 
to  think  —  and  I  promise  you  her  education  has  been  un- 
exceptionable —  I  may  say  it;  for  I  chiefly  made  it  my 
own  care  to  initiate  her  very  infancy  in  the  rudiments  of 
virtue,  and  to  impress  upon  her  tender  years  a  young 
odium  and  aversion  to  the  very  sight  of  men:  aye,  friend, 
she  would  ha'  shrieked  if  she  had  but  seen  a  man,  till  she 
was  in  her  teens.  As  I  am  a  person  'tis  true  —  she  was 
never  suffered  to  play  with  a  male  child,  though  but  in 


352  THE   WAY   OF  THE   WORLD  [act  v 

coats;  nay,  her  very  babies  were  of  the  feminine  gender. 
Oh,  she  never  looked  a  man  in  the  face  but  her 
■  own  father,  or  the  chaplain,  and  him  we  made  a  shift 
to  put  upon  her  for  a  woman,  by  the  help  of  his 
long  garments,  and  his  sleek  face,  till  she  was  going 
in  her  fifteen.  74 

Mrs.  Mar.   'Twas  much  she  should  be  deceived  so  long. 

Lady  Wish.  I  warrant  you,  or  she  would  never  have 
borne  to  have  been  catechized  by  him;  and  have  heard 
his  long  lectures  against  singing  and  dancing,  and  such 
debaucheries;  and  going  to  filthy  plays,  and  profane 
music-meetings,  where  the  lewd  trebles  squeak  nothing 
but  bawdy,  and  the  basses  roar  blasphemy.  Oh,  she 
would  have  swooned  at  the  sight  or  name  of  an  obscene 
play-book!  —  and  can  I  think,  after  all  this,  that  my 
daughter  can  be  naught?  What,  a  whore?  and  thought 
it  excommunication  to  set  her  foot  within  the  door  of 
a  playhouse!  O  dear  friend,  I  can't  believe  it,  no,  no! 
As  she  says,  let  him  prove  it,  let  him  prove  it.  87 

Mrs.  Mar.  Prove  it,  madam!  What,  and  have  your 
name  prostituted  in  a  pubhc  court!  Yours  and  your 
daughter's  reputation  worried  at  the  bar  by  a  pack  of 
bawhng  lawyers!  To  be  ushered  in  with  an  O  yes  of 
scandal;  and  have  your  case  opened  by  an  old  fumbhng 
lecher  in  a  quoif  hke  a  man-midwife;"  to  bring  your 
daughter's  infamy  to  light;  to  be  a  theme  for  legal 
punsters  and  quibblers  by  the  statute;  and  become  a  jest 
against  a  rule  of  court,  where  there  is  no  precedent  for  a 
jest  in  any  record — not  even  in  doomsday-book;  "  to  dis- 
compose the  gravity  of  the  bench,  and  provoke  naughty 
interrogatories  in  more  naughty  law  Latin;  while  the 
good  judge,  tickled  with  the  proceeding,  simpers  under  a 
grey  beard,  and  fidgets  off  and  on  his  cushion  as  if  he 
had  swallowed  cantharides,"  or  sat  upon  cowage! —    102 

Lady  Wish.    Oh,  'tis  very  hard! 

Mrs.  Alar.  And  then  to  have  my  young  revellers  of 
the  Temple  "  take  notes,  like  'prentices  at  a  conventicle; 


SCENE  II]        THE    WAY    OF   THE   WORLD  353 

and  after  talk  it  over  again  in  commons,  or  before  drawers 
in  an  eating-house. 

Lady  Wish.   Worse  and  worse!  108 

Mrs.  Mar.  Nay,  this  is  nothing;  if  it  would  end  here 
'twere  well.  But  it  must,  after  this,  be  consigned  by  the 
shorthand  writers  to  the  public  press;  and  from  thence 
be  transferred  to  the  hands,  nay  into  the  throats  and 
lungs  of  hawkers,  with  voices  more  licentious  than  the 
loud  flounder-man's:  and  this  you  must  hear  till  you  are 
stunned;  nay,  you  must  hear  nothing  else  for  some  days. 

Lady  Wish.  Oh,  'tis  insupportable!  No,  no,  dear 
friend,  make  it  up,  make  it  up;  aye,  aye,  I'll  compound. 
I'll  give  up  all,  myself  and  my  all,  my  niece  and  her 
all  —  anything,  everything  for  composition.  119 

Mrs.  Mar.  Nay,  madam,  I  advise  nothing,  I  only  lay 
before  you,  as  a  friend,  the  inconveniences  which  perhaps 
you  have  overseen.  Here  comes  Mr.  Fainall;  if  he  will 
be  satisfied  to  huddle  up  all  in  silence,  I  shall  be  glad. 
You  must  think  I  would  rather  congratulate  than  condole 
with  you. 

Enter  Fainall 

Lady  Wish.  Aye,  aye,  I  do  not  doubt  it,  dear  Mar- 
wood;  no,  no,  I  do  not  doubt  it.  127 

Fain.  Well,  madam ;  I  have  suffered  myself  to  be  over- 
come by  the  importunity  of  this  lady  your  friend;  and 
am  content  you  shall  enjoy  your  own  proper  estate  dur- 
ing life,  on  condition  you  oblige  yourself  never  to  marry, 
under  such  penalty  as  I  think  convenient. 

Lady  Wish.    Never  to  marry! 

Fain.  No  more  Sir  Rowlands;  the  next  imposture 
may  not  be  so  timely  detected. 

Mrs.  Mar.  That  condition,  I  dare  answer,  my  lady 
will  consent  to  without  difiiculty;  she  has  already  but 
too  much  experienced  the  perfidiousness  of  men.  —  Be- 
sides, madam,  when  we  retire  to  our  pastoral  solitude  we 
shall  bid  adieu  to  all  other  thoughts.  140 

CONGREVE  —  2T, 


354  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  v 

Lady  Wish.  Aye,  that's  true;  but  in  case  of  necessity, 
as  of  health,  or  some  such  emergency  — 

Fain.  Oh,  if  you  are  prescribed  marriage,  you  shall  be 
considered;  I  only  will  reserve  to  myself  the  power  to 
choose  for  you.  If  your  physic  be  wholesome,  it  matters 
not  who  is  your  apothecary.  Next,  my  wife  shall  settle 
on  me  the  remainder  of  her  fortune,  not  made  over 
already;  and  for  her  maintenance  depend  entirely  on  my 
discretion. 

Lady  Wish.  This  is  most  inhumanly  savage;  exceed- 
ing the  barbarity  of  a  Muscovite  husband."  151 

Fain.  I  learned  it  from  his  Czarish  majesty's  retinue," 
in  a  winter  evening's  conference  over  brandy  and  pepper, 
amongst  other  secrets  of  matrimony  and  policy,  as  they 
are  at  present  practised  in  the  northern  hemisphere.  But 
this  must  be  agreed  unto,  and  that  positively.  Lastly,  I 
will  be  endowed,  in  right  of  my  wife,  with  that  six  thou- 
sand pounds,  which  is  the  moiety  of  Mrs.  Millamant's 
fortune  in  your  possession;  and  which  she  has  for- 
feited (as  will  appear  by  the  last  will  and  testament  of  [160 
your  deceased  husband.  Sir  Jonathan  Wishfort)  by  her 
disobedience  in  contracting  herself  against  your  consent 
or  knowledge;  and  by  refusing  the  offered  match  with 
Sir  Wilfull  Witwoud,  which  you,  like  a  careful  aunt,  had 
provided  for  her. 

Lady  Wish.  My  nephew  was  non  compos,  and  could 
not  make  his  addresses. 

Fain.  I  come  to  make  demands  —  I'll  hear  no 
objections. 

Lady  Wish.    You  will  grant  me  time  to  consider?    170 

Fain.  Yes,  while  the  instrument  is  drawing,"  to  which 
you  must  set  your  hand  till  more  sufficient  deeds  can  be 
perfected:  which  I  will  take  care  shall  be  done  with  all 
possible  speed.  In  the  meanwhile  I'll  go  for  the  said 
instrument,  and  till  my  return  you  may  balance  this 
matter  in  your  own  discretion.  [Exit. 

Lady  Wish.    This  insolence  is  beyond  all  precedent, 


SCENE  II]        THE   WAY    OF   THE   WORLD  355 

all  parallel:  must  I  be  subject  to  this  merciless 
villain? 

Mrs.  Mar.  'Tis  severe  indeed,  madam,  that  you  should 
smart  for  your  daughter's  wantonness.  i8i 

Lady  Wish.  'Twas  against  my  consent  that  she  mar- 
ried this  barbarian,  but  she  would  have  him,  though  her 
year  was  not  out.  —  Ah!  her  first  husband,  my  son  Lan- 
guish, would  not  have  carried  it  thus.  Well,  that  was 
my  choice,  this  is  hers:  she  is  matched  now  with  a  wit- 
ness. —  I  shall  be  mad!  —  Dear  friend,  is  there  no  com- 
fort for  me?  must  I  live  to  be  confiscated  at  this  rebel- 
rate?  —  Here  come  two  more  of  my  Egyptian  plagues  too. 

Enter  Mrs.  Millamant  and  Sir  Wilfull  Witwoud 

Sir  Wil.   Aunt,  your  servant.  igo 

Lady  Wish.  Out,  caterpillar,  call  not  me  aunt!  I 
know  thee  not! 

Sir  Wil.  I  confess  I  have  been  a  little  in  disguise,  as 
they  say.  —  S'heart!  and  I'm  sorry  for't.  What  would 
you  have?  I  hope  I  have  committed  no  offence,  aunt  — 
and  if  I  did  I  am  willing  to  make  satisfaction;  and  what 
can  a  man  say  fairer?  If  I  have  broke  anything  I'll  pay 
for't,  an  it  cost  a  pound.  And  so  let  that  content  for 
what's  past,  and  make  no  more  words.  For  what's  to 
come,  to  pleasure  you  I'm  willing  to  marry  my  cousin. 
So  pray  let's  all  be  friends,  she  and  I  are  agreed  upon  the 
matter  before  a  witness.  202 

Lady  Wish.  How's  this,  dear  niece?  Have  I  any  com- 
fort?    Can  this  be  true? 

Mrs.  Mil.  I  am  content  to  be  a  sacrifice  to  your  re- 
pose, madam;  and  to  convince  you  that  I  had  no  hand 
in  the  plot,  as  you  were  misinformed,  I  have  laid  my 
commands  on  Mirabell  to  come  in  person,  and  be  a  wit- 
ness that  I  give  my  hand  to  this  flower  of  knighthood: 
and  for  the  contract  that  passed  between  Mirabell  and 
me,  I  have  obliged  him  to  make  a  resignation  of  it  in 


356  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  v 

your  ladyship's  presence;   he  is  without,  and  waits  your 
leave  for  admittance.  213 

Lady  Wish.  Well,  I'll  swear  I  am  something  revived 
at  this  testimony  of  your  obedience:  but  I  cannot  admit 
that  traitor.  —  I  fear  I  cannot  fortify  myself  to  support 
his  appearance.  He  is  as  terrible  to  me  as  a  gorgon;  if 
I  see  him  I  fear  I  shall  turn  to  stone,  and  petrify  in- 
cessantly. 

Mrs.  Mil.  If  you  disoblige  him,  he  may  resent  your 
refusal,  and  insist  upon  the  contract  still.  Then  'tis  the 
last  time  he  will  be  offensive  to  you.  222 

Lady  Wish.  Are  you  sure  it  will  be  the  last  time?  —  If 
I  were  sure  of  that  —  shall  I  never  see  him  again? 

Mrs.  Mil.  Sir  Wilfull,  you  and  he  are  to  travel  together, 
are  you  not? 

Sir  Wil.  S'heart,  the  gentleman's  a  civil  gentleman, 
aunt,  let  him  come  in;  why,  we  are  sworn  brothers  and 
fellow-travellers.  —  We  are  to  be  Pylades  and  Orestes,  he 
and  I.  —  He  is  to  be  my  interpreter  in  foreign  parts.  He 
has  been  over-seas  once  already;  and  with  proviso  that  I 
marry  my  cousin,  will  cross  'em  once  again,  only  to  bear 
me  company.  —  S'heart,  I'll  call  him  in,  an  I  set  on't 
once,  he  shall  come  in;   and  see  who'll  hinder  him. 

[Goes  to  the  door  and  hems. 

Mrs.  Mar.  This  is  precious  fooling,  if  it  would  pass; 
but  I'll  know  the  bottom  of  it.  236 

Lady  Wish.    O  dear  Marwood,  you  are  not  going? 

Mrs.  Mar.   Not  far,  madam;   I'll  return  immediately. 

[Exit. 
Enter  Mirabell 

Sir  Wil.  Look  up,  man,  I'll  stand  by  you;  'sbud  an 
she  do  frown,  she  can't  kill  you;  besides  —  harkee,  she 
dare  not  frown  desperately,  because  her  face  is  none  of 
her  own.  S'heart,  an  she  should,  her  forehead  would 
wrinkle  like  the  coat  of  a  cream-cheese;  but  mum  for 
that,  fellow-traveller. 


SCENE  II]        THE    WAY    OF   THE    WORLD  357 

Mir.  If  a  deep  sense  of  the  many  injuries  I  have 
offered  to  so  good  a  lady,  with  a  sincere  remorse,  and  a 
hearty  contrition,  can  but  obtain  the  least  glance  of  com- 
passion, I  am  too  happy.  —  Ah,  madam,  there  was  a 
time!  —  but  let  it  be  forgotten  —  I  confess  I  have  de- 
servedly forfeited  the  high  place  I  once  held  of  sighing  [250 
at  your  feet.  Nay,  kill  me  not,  by  turning  from  me  in 
disdain.  —  I  come  not  to  plead  for  favour;  nay,  not  for 
pardon;  I  am  a  suppliant  only  for  pity  —  I  am  going 
where  I  never  shall  behold  you  more  — 

Sir  Wil.  How,  fellow-traveller!  you  shall  go  by  your- 
self then. 

Mir.  Let  me  be  pitied  first,  and  afterwards  forgotten. 
—  I  ask  no  more.  258 

Sir  Wil.  By'r  Lady,"  a  very  reasonable  request,  and 
will  cost  you  nothing,  aunt!  Come,  come,  forgive  and 
forget,  aunt.     Why,  you  must,  an  you  are  a  Christian. 

Mir.  Consider,  madam,  in  reality,  you  could  not 
receive  much  prejudice;  it  was  an  innocent  device; 
though  I  confess  it  had  a  face  of  guiltiness  —  it  was  at 
most  an  artifice  which  love  contrived;  and  errors  which 
love  produces  have  ever  been  accounted  venial.  At  least 
think  it  is  punishment  enough,  that  I  have  lost  what  in 
my  heart  I  hold  most  dear,  that  to  your  cruel  indignation 
I  have  offered  up  this  beauty,  and  with  her  my  peace 
and  quiet;  nay,  all  my  hopes  of  future  comfort.         270 

Sir  Wil.  An  he  does  not  move  me,  would  I  may  never 
be  o'  the  quorum!"  —  an  it  were  not  as  good  a  deed  as  to 
drink,  to  give  her  to  him  again,  I  would  I  might  never 
take  shipping!  —  Aunt,  if  you  don't  forgive  quickly,  I 
shall  melt,  I  can  tell  you  that.  My  contract  went  no 
farther  than  a  little  mouth  glue,  and  that's  hardly  dry  — 
one  doleful  sigh  more  from  my  fellow-traveller,  and  'tis 
dissolved.  278 

Lady  Wish.  Well,  nephew,  upon  your  account  —  Ah, 
he  has  a  false  insinuating  tongue!  —  Well  sir,  I  will  stille 
my  just  resentment  at  my  nephew's  request.  —  I  will  en- 


358  THE   WAV    Oi-'   THE    WORLD  [act  v 

deavour  what  I  can  to  forget,  but  on  proviso  that  you 
resign  the  contract  with  my  niece  immediately. 

Mir.  It  is  in  writing,  and  with  papers  of  concern;  but 
I  have  sent  my  servant  for  it,  and  will  deliver  it  to  you, 
with  all  acknowledgments  for  your  transcendent  good- 
ness. 287 

Lady  Wish.  [Aside.]  Oh,  he  has  witchcraft  in  his 
eyes  and  tongue!  —  When  I  did  not  see  him,  I  could  have 
bribed  a  villain  to  his  assassination;  but  his  appearance 
rakes  the  embers  which  have  so  long  lain  smothered  in 
my  breast. 

Scene  III 

The  same 

Lady  Wishfort,   Mrs.   Millamant,   Sir  Wilfull, 
MiRABELL,  Fainall,  and  Mrs.  Marwood 

Fain.  Your  date  of  deliberation,  madam,  is  expired. 
Here  is  the  instrument;    are  you  prepared  to  sign? 

Lady  Wish.  If  I  were  prepared,  I  am  not  impowered. 
My  niece  exerts  a  lawful  claim,  having  matched  herself 
by  my  direction  to  Sir  Wilfull. 

Fain.  That  sham  is  too  gross  to  pass  on  me —  though 
'tis  imposed  on  you,  madam. 

Mrs.  Mil.    Sir,  I  have  given  my  consent. 

Mir.    And,  sir,  I  have  resigned  my  pretensions.         9 

Sir  Wil.  And,  sir,  I  assert  my  right:  and  will  main- 
tain it  in  defiance  of  you,  sir,  and  of  your  instrument. 
S'heart,  an  you  talk  of  an  instrument,  sir,  I  have  an  old 
fox"  by  my  thigh  that  shall  hack  your  instrument 
of  ram  vellum  to  shreds,  sir!  It  shall  not  be  sufficient 
for  a  mittimus  "  or  a  tailor's  measure.  Therefore  with- 
draw your  instrument,  sir,  or  by'r  Lady,  I  shall  draw 
mine. 

Lady  Wish.    Hold,  nephew,  hold! 


SCENE  III]      THE   WAY    OF   THE   WORLD  359 

Mrs.  Mil.    Good  Sir  Wilfull,  respite  your  valour.      19 

Fain.  Indeed!  Are  you  provided  of  your  guard,  with 
your  single  beef-eater  there?  but  I'm  prepared  for  you, 
and  insist  upon  my  first  proposal.  You  shall  submit 
your  own  estate  to  my  management,  and  absolutely  make 
over  my  wife's  to  my  sole  use,  as  pursuant  to  the  purport 
and  tenor  of  this  other  covenant.  —  I  suppose,  madam, 
your  consent  is  not  requisite  in  this  case;  nor,  Mr.  Mira- 
bell,  your  resignation;  nor.  Sir  Wilfull,  your  right.  — You 
may  draw  your  fox  if  you  please,  sir,  and  make  a  bear- 
garden flourish"  somewhere  else:  for  here  it  will  not 
avail.  This,  my  Lady  Wishfort,  must  be  subscribed, 
or  your  darling  daughter's  turned  adrift,  like  a  leaky 
hulk,  to  sink  or  swim,  as  she  and  the  current  of  this 
lewd  town  can  agree.  33 

Lady  Wish.  Is  there  no  means,  no  remedy  to  stop  my 
ruin?  Ungrateful  wretch!  dost  thou  not  owe  thy  being, 
thy  subsistence,  to,  my  daughter's  fortune  ? 

Faiti.  I'll  answer  you  when  I  have  the  rest  of  it  in  my 
possession.  38 

Mir.  But  that  you  would  not  accept  of  a  remedy  from 
my  hands  —  I  own  I  have  not  deserved  you  should  owe 
any  obligation  to  me;   or  else  perhaps  I  could  advise  — 

Lady  Wish.  Oh,  what?  what?  To  save  me  and  my 
child  from  ruin,  from  want,  I'll  forgive  all  that's  past; 
nay,  I'll  consent  to  anything  to  come,  to  be  delivered 
from  this  tyranny. 

Mir.  Aye,  madam;  but  that  is  too  late,  my  reward  is 
intercepted.  You  have  disposed  of  her  who  only  could 
have  made  me  a  compensation  for  all  my  services;  but 
be  it  as  it  may,  I  am  resolved  I'll  serve  you!  you  shall 
not  be  wronged  in  this  savage  manner.  50 

Lady  Wish.  How!  dear  Mr.  Mirabell,  can  you  be  so 
generous  at  last!  But  it  is  not  possible.  Harkee,  I'll 
break  my  nephew's  match;  you  shall  have  my  niece  yet, 
and  all  her  fortune,  if  you  can  but  save  me  from  this 
imminent  danger. 


36o  THE   WAY    OF    THE    WORLD  [act  v 

Mir.    Will  you?  I'll  take  you  at  your  word.     I  ask  no 
more.     I  must  have  leave  for  two  criminals  to  appear. 
Lady  Wish.    Aye,  aye,  anybody,  anybody! 
Mir.    Foible  is  one,  and  a  penitent.  59 

Enter  Mrs.  Fainall,  Foible,  and  Mincing 

Mrs.  Mar.  Oh,  my  shame!  [Mirabell  and  Lady 
WiSHFORT  go  to  Mrs.  Fainall  and  Foible.]  These 
corrupt  things  are  brought  hither  to  expose  me. 

[To  Fainall. 

Fain.  If  it  must  all  come  out,  why  let  'em  know  it; 
'tis  but  the  way  of  the  world.  That  shall  not  urge  me  to 
rehnquish  or  abate  one  tittle  of  my  terms;  no,  I  will 
insist  the  more. 

Foib.  Yes,  indeed,  madam,  I'll  take  my  bible-oath 
of  it. 

Min.    And  so  will  I,  mem.  6g 

Lady  Wish.  0  Marwood,  Marwood,  art  thou  false? 
my  friend  deceive  me!  hast  thou  been  a  wicked  accom- 
plice with  that  profligate  man? 

Mrs.  Mar.  Have  you  so  much  ingratitude  and  injustice 
to  give  credit  against  your  friend,  to  the  aspersions  of  two 
such  mercenary  trulls  ? 

Min.  Mercenary,  mem?  I  scorn  your  words.  'Tis  true 
we  found  you  and  Mr.  Fainall  in  the  blue  garret;  by  the 
same  token,  you  swore  us  to  secrecy  upon  Messalina's 
poems.''  Mercenary!  No,if  we  would  have  been  merce- 
nary, we  should  have  held  our  tongues;  you  would  have 
bribed  us  suflficiently.  8i 

Fain.  Go,  you  are  an  insignificant  thing!  —  Well, 
what  are  you  the  better  for  this;  is  this  Mr.  Mirabell's 
expedient?  I'll  be  put  off  no  longer.  —  You  thing,  that 
was  a  wife,  shall  smart  for  this!  I  will  not  leave  thee 
wherewithall  to  hide  thy  shame;  your  body  shall  be 
naked  as  your  reputation. 

Mrs.  Fain.   I  despise  you,  and  defy  your  malice!  — 


SCENE  III]       THE    WAY   OF    THE    WORLD  36 1 

you  have  aspersed  me  wrongfully  —  I  have  proved  your 
falsehood  —  go  you  and  your  treacherous  —  I  will  not 
name  it,  but  starve  together  —  perish!  91 

Fain.  Not  while  you  are  worth  a  groat,  indeed,  my 
dear.  —  Madam,  I'll  be  fooled  no  longer. 

Lady  Wish.  Ah,  Mr.  Mirabell,  tliis  is  small  comfort, 
the  detection  of  this  affair. 

Mir.  Oh,  in  good  time  —  your  leave  for  the  other 
offender  and  penitent  to  appear,  madam. 

Enter  Waitwell  with  a  box  of  writings 

Lady  Wish.   O  Sir  Rowland !  —  Well,  rascal ! 

Wait.  What  your  ladyship  pleases.  I  have  brought 
the  black  box  at  last,  madam.  100 

Mir.    Give   it   me.  —  Madam,   you  remember    your 
promise. 
'    Lady  Wish.   Aye,  dear  sir. 

Mir.    Where  are  the  gentlemen?  f^ 

Wait.  At  hand,  sir,  rubbing  their  eyes  —  just  risen 
from  sleep. 

Fain.  'Sdeath,  what's  this  to  me?  I'll  not  wait  your 
private  concerns. 

Enter  Petulant  atid  Witwoud 

Pet.  How  now?  What's  the  matter?  Whose  hand's 
out?  no 

Wit.  Heyday!  what,  are  you  all  got  together,  like 
players  at  the  end  of  the  last  act? 

Mir.  You  may  remember,  gentlemen,  I  once  requested 
your  hands  as  witnesses  to  a  certain  parchment. 

Wit.  Aye,  I  do,  my  hand  I  remember — Petulant  set 
his  mark. 

Mir.  You  wrong  him,  his  name  is  fairly  written,  as 
shall  appear.  —  You  do  not  remember,  gentlemen,  any- 
thing of  what  that  parchment  contains?  —  ng 

[Undoing  the  box. 


362  THE    WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  v 

Wil.   No. 

Pel.    Not  I;  I  writ,  I  read  nothing. 

Mir.  Very  well,  now  you  shall  know.  —  Madam,  your 
promise. 

Lady  Wish.    Aye,  aye,  sir,  upon  my  honour. 

Mir.  Mr.  Fainall,  it  is  now  time  that  you  should  know 
that  your  lady,  while  she  was  at  her  own  disposal,  and 
before  you  had  by  your  insinuations  wheedled  her  out 
of  a  pretended  settlement  of  the  greatest  part  of  her 
fortune  — 

Fain.    Sir!    pretended!  130 

Mir.  Yes,  sir.  I  say  that  this  lady  while  a  widow, 
having  it  seems  received  some  cautions  respecting  your 
inconstancy  and  tyranny  of  temper,  which  from  her  own 
partial  opinion  and  fondness  of  you  she  could  never  have 
suspected  —  she  did,  I  say,  by  the  wholesome  advice  of 
friends,  and  of  sages  learned  in  the  laws  of  this  land,. 
deliver  this  same  as  her  act  and  deed  to  me  in  trust,  and 
to  the  ^ses  within  mentioned.  You  may  read  if  you 
please  —  [Holding  out  the  parchment]  though  perhaps 
what  is  written  on  the  back  may  serve  your  occasions. 

Fain.  Very  likely,  sir.  What's  here?  —  Damnation! 
[Reads.]  "A  deed  of  conveyance  of  the  whole  estate 
real  of  Arabella  Languish,  widow,  in  trust  to  Edward 
Mirabell."  —  Confusion!  144 

Mir.  Even  so,  sir;  'tis  the  way  of  the  world,  sir,  of 
the  widows  of  the  world.  I  suppose  this  deed  may  bear 
an  elder  date  than  what  you  have  obtained  from  your 
lady. 

Fain.    Perfidious  fiend!  then  thus  I'll  be  revenged. 

[OJfers  to  run  at  Mrs.  Fainall. 

Sir  Wil.  Hold,  sir!  Now  you  may  make  your  bear- 
garden flourish  somewhere  else,  sir.  isi 

Fain.  Mirabell,  you  shall  hear  of  this,  sir,  be  sure  you 
shall. — Let  me  pass,  oaf!  [Exit. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Madam,  you  seem  to  stifle  your  resent- 
ment;  you  had  better  give  it  vent. 


SCENE  III]       THE   WAY    OF    THE   WORLD  363 

Mrs.  Mar.  Yes,  it  shall  have  vent  —  and  to  your  con- 
fusion;   or  I'll  perish  in  the  attempt.  [Exit. 

Lady  Wish.  O  daughter,  daughter!  'Tis  plain  thou 
hast  inherited  thy  mother's  prudence. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Thank  Mr.  Mirabell,  a  cautious  friend,  to 
whose  advice  all  is  owing.  161 

Lady  Wish.  Well,  Mr.  Mirabell,  you  have  kept  your 
promise  —  and  I  must  perform  mine.  —  First,  I  pardon, 
for  your  sake.  Sir  Rowland  there,  and  Foible;  the  next 
thing  is  to  break  the  matter  to  my  nephew  —  and  how  to 
do  that  — 

Mir.  For  that,  madam,  give  yourself  no  trouble;  let 
me  have  your  consent.  Sir  WilfuU  is  my  friend;  he  has 
had  compassion  upon  lovers,  and  generously  engaged 
a  volunteer  in  this  action,  for  our  service;  and  now 
designs  to  prosecute  his  travels.  171 

Sir  WiL  S'heart,  aunt,  I  have  no  mind  to  marry.  My 
cousin's  a  fine  lady,  and  the  gentleman  loves  her,  and  she 
loves  him,  and  they  deserve  one  another;  my  resolution 
is  to  see  foreign  parts  —  I  have  set  on't  —  and  when  I'm 
set  on't  I  must  do't.  And  if  these  two  gentlemen  would 
travel  too,  I  think  they  may  be  spared. 

Pet.  For  my  part,  I  say  little  —  I  think  things  are  best 
off  or  on. 

Wit.  I'gad,  I  understand  nothing  of  the  matter;  I'm 
in  a  maze  yet,  like  a  dog  in  a  dancing-school.  181 

Lady  Wish.  Well,  sir,  take  her,  and  with  her  all  the 
joy  I  can  give  you. 

Mrs.  MiL  Why  does  not  the  man  take  me?  Would 
you  have  me  give  myself  to  you  over  again? 

Mir.  Aye,  and  over  and  over  again;  [Kisses  her  hand.] 
I  would  have  you  as  often  as  possibly  I  can.  Well, 
Heaven  grant  I  love  you  not  too  well,  that's  all  my  fear. 

Sir  WiL  S'heart,  you'll  have  time  enough  to  toy  after 
you're  married;  or  if  you  will  toy  now,  let  us  have  a 
dance  in  the  meantime,  that  we  who  are  not  lovers  may 
have  some  other  employment  besides  looking  on.        192 


364  THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  [act  v 

Mir.  With  all  my  heart,  dear  Sir  WilfuU.  What  shall 
we  do  for  music? 

Foib.  Oh,  sir,  some  that  were  provided  for  Sir  Row- 
land's entertainment  are  yet  within  call.  [A  Dance. 

Lady  Wish.  As  I  am  a  person,  I  can  hold  out  no 
longer;  I  have  wasted  my  spirits  so  to-day  already,  that 
I  am  ready  to  sink  under  the  fatigue;  and  I  cannot  but 
have  some  fears  upon  me  yet,  that  my  son  Fainall  will 
pursue  some  desperate  course.  201 

Mir.  Madam,  disquiet  not  yourself  on  that  account; 
to  my  knowledge  his  circumstances  are  such  he  must  of 
force  comply.  For  my  part,  I  will  contribute  all  that  in 
me  lies  to  a  reunion;  in  the  meantime,  madam  —  [To 
Mrs.  Fainall.]  let  me  before  these  witnesses  restore  to 
you  this  deed  of  trust:  it  may  be  a  means,  well-managed, 
to  make  you  live  easily  together. 

From  hence  let  those  be  warned,  who  mean  to  wed; 

Lest  mutual  falsehood  stain  the  bridal  bed;  210 

For  each  deceiver  to  his  cost  may  find 

That  marriage-frauds  too  oft  are  paid  in  kind.^ 

[Exeunt  omnes. 


EPILOGUE 

SPOKEN   BY   MRS.    BRACEGIRDLE 

After  our  Epilogue  this  crowd  dismisses, 
I'm  thinking  how  this  play'll  be  pulled  to  pieces. 
But  pray  consider,  ere  you  doom  its  fall, 
How  hard  a  thing  'twould  be  to  please  you  all. 
There  are  some  critics  so  with  spleen  diseased, 
They  scarcely  come  inclining  to  be  pleased: 
And  sure  he  must  have  more  than  mortal  skill, 
Who  pleases  any  one  against  his  will. 
Then  all  bad  poets  we  are  sure  are  foes. 
And  how  their  number's  swelled,  the  town  well  knows:  lo 
In  shoals  I've  marked  'em  judging  in  the  pit; 
Though  they're,  on  no  pretence,  for  judgement  fit, 
But  that  they  have  been  damned  for  want  of  wit. 
Since  when,  they  by  their  own  offences  taught. 
Set  up  for  spies  on  plays,  and  finding  fault. 
Others  there  are  whose  malice  we'd  prevent; 
Such  who  watch  plays  with  scurrilous  intent 
To  mark  out  who  by  characters  are  meant. 
And  though  no  perfect  likeness  they  can  trace, 
Yet  each  pretends  to  know  the  copied  face.  20 

These  with  false  glosses  feed  their  own  ill  nature, 
And  turn  to  libel  what  was  meant  a  satire. 
May  such  malicious  fops  this  fortune  find, 
To  think  themselves  alone  the  fools  designed: 
If  any  are  so  arrogantly  vain. 
To  think  they  singly  can  support  a  scene, 
And  furnish  fool  enough  to  entertain. 
For  well  the  learned  and  the  judicious  know 
That  satire  scorns  to  stoop  so  meanly  low, 
As  any  one  abstracted  fop  to  show.  30 

365 


366  THE   WAY    OF    THE    WORLD 

For,  as  when  painters  form  a  matchless  face, 

They  from  each  fair  one  catch  some  different  grace; 

And  shining  features  in  one  portrait  blend. 

To  which  no  single  beauty  must  pretend; 

So  poets  oft  do  in  one  piece  expose 

Whole  belles-assemblees  of  coquettes  and  beaux. 


THE  MOURNING  BRIDE 


Neque  enim  lex  asquior  ulla, 

Quam  necis  artifices  arte  perire  sua."  —  Ovid,  de  Arte  Amandi. 

[1.  655I 


THE   MOURNING   BRIDE 

The  Mourning  Bride  is  Congreve's  only  tragedy.  If  was 
first  produced  in  the  year  1697,  was  favourably  received,  and 
long  held  the  stage.  While  modern  criticism  is  undoubtedly 
right  in  preferring  the  comic  muse  of  Congreve  to  this  effort 
in  tragedy,  The  Mourning  Bride  is  well  written  in  the  elevated 
style  current  in  the  romantic  drama  of  the  day,  and  is,  as  a 
play,  far  from  devoid  of  interest. 


368 


To  Her  Royal  Highness, 

THE   PRINCESS 

Madam, 

That  high  station  which  by  your  birth  you  hold 
above  the  people,  exacts  from  every  one,  as  a  duty, 
whatever  honours  they  are  capable  of  paying  to  your 
Royal  Highness:  but  that  more  exalted  place  to  which 
your  virtues  have  raised  you  above  the  rest  of 
princes,  makes  the  tribute  of  our  admiration  and 
praise  rather  a  choice  more  immediately  preventing 
that  duty. 

The  public  gratitude  is  ever  founded  on  a  public 
benefit;  and  what  is  universally  blessed,  is  always  a 
universal  blessing.  Thus  from  yourself  we  derive  the 
offerings  which  we  bring;  and  that  incense  which  arises 
to  your  name,  only  returns  to  its  original,  and  but 
naturally  requites  the  parent  of  its  being. 

From  hence  it  is  that  this  poem,  constituted  on  a  moral 
whose  end  is  to  recommend  and  to  encourage  virtue, 
of  consequence  has  recourse  to  your  Royal  Highness's 
patronage;  aspiring  to  cast  itself  beneath  your  feet,  and 
declining  approbation,  till  you  shall  condescend  to  own  it, 
and  vouchsafe  to  shine  upon  it  as  on  a  creature  of  your 
influence. 

It  is  from  the  example  of  princes  that  virtue  becomes  a 
fashion  in  the  people;  for  even  they  who  are  averse  to  in- 
struction will  yet  be  fond  of  imitation. 

But  there  are  multitudes  who  never  can  have  means 
nor  opportunities  of  so  near  an  access,  as  to  partake  of 
the  benefit  of  such  examples.     And  to  these  Tragedy, 

CONGREVE 24  369 


370  THE    MOURNING    BRIDE 

which  distinguishes  itself  from  the  vulgar  poetry  by  the 
dignity  of  its  characters,  may  be  of  use  and  information. 
For  they  who  are  at  that  distance  from  original  great- 
ness as  to  be  deprived  of  the  happiness  of  contemplat- 
ing the  perfections  and  real  excellences  of  your  Royal 
Highness's  person  in  your  court,  may  yet  behold  some 
small  sketches  and  imagings  of  the  virtues  of  your  mind, 
abstracted  and  represented  on  the  theatre. 

Thus  poets  are  instructed,  and  instruct;  not  alone 
by  precepts  which  persuade,  but  also  by  examples 
which  illustrate.  Thus  is  delight  interwoven  with 
instruction;  when  not  only  virtue  is  prescribed,  but 
also  represented. 

But  if  we  are  delighted  with  the  liveliness  of  a  feigned 
representation  of  great  and  good  persons  and  their  ac- 
tions, how  must  we  be  charmed  with  beholding  the  per- 
sons themselves!  If  one  or  two  excelling  qualities,  barely 
touched  in  the  single  action  and  small  compass  of  a  play, 
can  warm  an  audience,  with  a  concern  and  regard  even 
for  the  seeming  success  and  prosperity  of  the  actor:  with 
what  zeal  must  the  hearts  of  all  be  filled  for  the  con- 
tinued and  increasing  happiness  of  those  who  are  the 
true  and  living  instances  of  elevated  and  persisting  virtue! 
Even  the  vicious  themselves  must  have  a  secret  venera- 
tion for  those  peculiar  graces  and  endowments  which  are 
daily  so  eminently  conspicuous  in  your  Royal  Highness; 
and,  though  repining,  feel  a  pleasure  which,  in  spite  of 
envy,  they  perforce  approve. 

If  in  this  piece,  humbly  offered  to  your  Royal  Highness, 
there  shall  appear  the  resemblance  of  any  of  those  many 
excellences  which  you  so  promiscuously  possess,  to  be 
drawn  so  as  to  merit  your  least  approbation,  it  has  the 
end  and  accomplishment  of  its  design.  And  however 
imperfect  it  may  be  in  the  whole,  through  the  inex- 
perience or  incapacity  of  the  author,  yet,  if  there  is  so 
much  as  to  convince  your  Royal  Highness,  that  a  play 
may  be  with  industry  so  disposed  (in  spite  of  the  licen- 


THE   MOURNING   BRIDE  371 

tious  practice  of  the  modern  theatre)  as  to  become  some- 
times an  innocent,  and  not  unprofitable  entertainment; 
it  will  abundantly  gratify  the  ambition,  and  recom- 
pense the  endeavours  of  your  Royal  Highness's  most 
obedient,  and  most  humbly  devoted  servant, 

William  Congreve. 


PROLOGUE 

SPOKEN   BY   MR.    BETTERTON 

The  time  has  been  when  plays  were  not  so  plenty, 
And  a  less  number  new  would  well  content  ye. 
New  plays  did  then  like  almanacs  appear; 
And  one  was  thought  sufhcient  for  a  year: 
Though  they  are  more  like  almanacs  of  late; 
For  in.  one  year,  I  think,  they're  out  of  date. 
Nor  were  they  without  reason  joined  together; 
For  just  as  one  prognosticates  the  weather, 
How  plentiful  the  crop,  or  scarce  the  grain, 
What  peals  of  thunder,  and  what  showers  of  rain; 
So  t'other  can  foretell,  by  certain  rules, 
What  crops  of  coxcombs,  or  what  floods  of  fools. 
In  such  like  prophecies  were  poets  skilled, 
Which  now  they  find  in  their  own  tribe  fulfilled: 
The  dearth  of  wit  they  did  so  long  presage, 
Is  fallen  on  us,  and  almost  starves  the  stage. 
Were  you  not  grieved  as  often  as  you  saw 
Poor  actors  thrash  such  empty  sheafs  of  straw? 
Toiling  and  labouring  at  their  lungs'  expense, 
To  start  a  jest,  or  force  a  little  sense. 
Hard  fate  for  us!  still  harder  in  the  event; 
Our  authors  sin,  but  we  alone  repent. 
Still  they  proceed,  and,  at  our  charge,  write  worse. 
'Twere  some  amends  if  they  could  reimburse: 
But  there's  the  devil,  though  their  cause  is  lost, 
There's  no  recovering  damages  or  cost. 

Good  wits,  forgive  this  liberty  we  take, 
Since  custom  gives  the  losers  leave  to  speak. 
But  if  provoked,  your  dreadful  wrath  remains, 

372 


10 


20 


THE    MOURNING    BRIDE  373 

Take  your  revenge  upon  the  coming  scenes:  30 

For  that  damned  poet's  spared  who  damns  a  brother 

As  one  thief  scapes  that  executes  another. 

Thus  far  alone  does  to  the  wits  relate; 

But  from  the  rest  we  hope  a  better  fate. 

To  please  and  move  has  been  our  poet's  theme, 

Art  may  direct,  but  nature  is  his  aim; 

And  nature  missed,  in  vain  he  boasts  his  art, 

For  only  nature  can  affect  the  heart. 

Then  freely  judge  the  scenes  that  shall  ensue; 

But  as  with  freedom,  judge  with  candour  too.  40 

He  would  not  lose  through  prejudice  his  cause. 

Nor  would  obtain  precariously  applause; 

Impartial  censure  he  requests  from  all, 

Prepared  by  just  decrees  to  stand  or  fall. 


DRAMATIS  PERSON M 

Manuel,  the  King  of  Granada. 

GoNSALEZ,  his  Favourite. 

Garcia,  Son  to  Gonsalez. 

Perez,  Captain  of  the  Guards. 

Alonzo,  an  Officer,  creature  to  Gonsalez. 

OsMYN,  a  noble  Prisoner. 

Heli,  a  Prisoner,  his  Friend. 

Selim,  a  Eunuch, 

Almeria,  the  Princess  of  Granada. 

Zara,  a  captive  Queen. 

Leonora,  chief' Attendant  of  the  Princess. 

Almeria's  Women,  Eunuchs  and  Mutes  attending  Zara, 
Guards,  Prisoners,  and  Attendants. 

Scene  —  Granada 


374 


THE  MOURNING  BRIDE 

ACT  THE   FIRST 

Scene  I 

A  Room  oj  State  in  the  Palace 

The  curtain  rising  slowly  to  soft  music,  discovers  Almeria 
in  mourning,  Leonora  ivaiting  in  mourning.  After  the 
music,  Almeria  rises  from  her  chair  and  comes  for- 
ward 

Aim.    Music  has  charms  to  soothe  a  savage  breast, 
To  soften  rocks,  or  bend  a  knotted  oak. 
I've  read  that  things  inanimate  have  moved, 
And,  as  with  Hving  souls,  have  been  informed, 
By  magic  numbers  and  persuasive  sound. 
What  then  am  I?     Am  I  more  senseless  grown 
Than  trees  or  flint?     O  force  of  constant  woe! 
'Tis  not  in  harmony  to  calm  my  griefs. 
Anselmo  sleeps,  and  is  at  peace;   last  night 
The  silent  tomb  received  the  good  old  king;  lo 

He  and  his  sorrows  now  are  safely  lodged 
Within  its  cold  but  hospitable  bosom. 
Why  am  not  I  at  peace? 

Leon.  Dear  madam,  cease, 

Or  moderate  your  griefs;    there  is  no  cause  — 

Aim.    No  cause!  peace,  peace;  there  is  eternal  cause. 
And  misery  eternal  will  succeed. 
Thou  canst  not  tell  —  thou  hast  indeed  no  cause. 

Leon.    Believe  me,  madam,  I  lament  Anselmo, 

375 


376  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  [act  i 

And  always  did  compassionate  his  fortune: 
Have  often  wept  to  see  how  cruelly  20 

Your  father  kept  in  chains  his  fellow-king: 
And  oft  at  night  when  all  have  been  retired, 
Have  stolen  from  bed,  and  to  his  prison  crept; 
Where,  while  his  jailor  slept,  I  through  the  grate 
Have  softly  whispered,  and  inquired  his  health; 
Sent  in  my  sighs  and  prayers  for  his  deliverance; 
For  sighs  and  prayers  were  all  that  I  could  offer. 

Aim.    Indeed  thou  hast  a  soft  and  gentle  nature, 
That  thus  couldst  melt  to  see  a  stranger's  wrongs. 
O  Leonora,  hadst  thou  known  Anselmo,  30 

How  would  thy  heart  have  bled  to  see  his  sufferings. 
Thou  hadst  no  cause,  but  general  compassion. 

Leon.   Love  of  my  royal  mistress  gave  me  cause. 
My  love  of  you  begot  my  grief  for  him; 
For  I  had  heard  that  when  the  chance  of  war 
Had  blessed  Anselmo's  arms  with  victory. 
And  the  rich  spoil  of  all  the  field,  and  you, 
The  glory  of  the  whole,  were  made  the  prey 
Of  his  success;   that  then,  in  spite  of  hate, 
Revenge,  and  that  hereditary  feud  40 

Between  Valentia's  and  Granada's  kings, 
He  did  endear  himself  to  your  affection. 
By  all  the  worthy  and  indulgent  ways 
His  most  industrious  goodness  could  invent; 
Proposing  by  a  match  between  Alphonso 
His  son,  the  brave  Valentia  prince,  and  you, 
To  end  the  long  dissension,  and  unite 
The  jarring  crowns. 

Aim.  Alphonso!    O  Alphonso! 

Thou  too  art  quiet  —  long  hast  been  at  peace  — 
Both,  both  —  father  and  son  are  now  no  more.  50 

Then  why  am  I?     Oh,  when  shall  I  have  rest? 
Why  do  I  live  to  say  you  are  no  more? 
Why  are  all  these  things  thus?  —  Is  it  of  force? 
Is  there  necessity  I  must  be  miserable? 


SCENE  I]  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  377 

Is  it  of  moment  to  the  peace  of  Heaven 

That  I  should  be  afflicted  thus?  —  If  not, 

Why  is  it  thus  contrived?     Why  are  things  laid 

By  some  unseen  hand  so,  as  of  sure  consequence, 

They  must  to  me  bring  curses,  grief  of  heart, 

The  last  distress  of  life,  and  sure  despair?  60 

Leon.   Alas,  you  search  too  far,  and  think  too  deeply! 

Aim.    Why  was  I  carried  to  Anselmo's  court? 
Or  there,  why  was  I  used  so  tenderly? 
Why  not  ill-treated  like  an  enemy? 
For  so  my  father  would  have  used  his  child. 

0  Alphonso!    Alphonso! 

Devouring  seas  have  washed  thee  from  my  sight, 

No  time  shall  raze  thee  from  my  memory; 

No,  I  will  Hve  to  be  thy  monument; 

The  cruel  ocean  is  no  more  thy  tomb:  70 

But  in  my  heart  thou  art  interred;   there,  there, 

Thy  dear  resemblance  is  for  ever  fixed; 

My  love,  my  lord,  my  husband  still,  though  lost. 

Leon.   Husband!  O  Heavens! 

Aim.  Alas!  what  have  I  said? 

My  grief  has  hurried  me  beyond  all  thought: 

1  would  have  kept  that  secret;   though  I  know 
Thy  love  and  faith  to  me  deserve  all  confidence. 
But  'tis  the  wretch's  comfort  still  to  have 
Some  small  reserve  of  near  and  inward  woe, 

Some  unsuspected  hoard  of  darling  grief,  80 

Which  they  unseen  may  wail,  and  weep  and  mourn. 
And,  glutton-like,  alone  devour. 

Leon.  Indeed 

I  knew  not  this. 

Aim.  Oh,  no,  thou  know'st  not  half, 

Know'st  nothing  of  my  sorrows.  —  If  thou  didst  — 
If  I  should  tell  thee,  wouldst  thou  pity  me? 
Tell  me;   I  know  thou  wouldst,  thou  art  compassionate. 

Leon.   Witness  these  tears! 

Aim.  I  thank  thee,  Leonora, 


378  THE   MOURNING   BRIDE  [act  i 

Indeed  I  do,  for  pitying  thy  sad  mistress; 

For  'tis,  alas!   the  poor  prerogative 

Of  greatness,  to  be  wretched  and  unpitied.  go 

But  I  did  promise  I  would  tell  thee  —  what? 

My  miseries?  thou  dost  already  know  'em; 

And  when  I  told  thee  thou  didst  nothing  know, 

It  was  because  thou  didst  not  know  Alphonso: 

For  to  have  known  my  loss,  thou  must  have  known 

His  worth,  his  truth,  and  tenderness  of  love. 

Leon.    The  memory  of  that  brave  prince  stands  fair 
In  all  report  — 

And  I  have  heard  imperfectly  his  loss! 
But  fearful  to  renevv^  your  troubles  past,  icxj 

I  never  did  presume  to  ask  the  story. 

Aim.    If  for  my  swelling  heart"  I  can,  I'll  tell  thee. 
I  was  a  welcome  captive  in  Valentia, 
Even  on  the  day  when  Manuel  my  father 
Led  on  his  conquering  troops,  high  as  the  gates 
Of  King  Anselmo's  palace;   which  in  rage. 
And  heat  of  war,  and  dire  revenge,  he  fired. 
The  good  king  flying  to  avoid  the  flames. 
Started  amidst  his  foes,  and  made  captivity 
His  fatal  refuge.  —  Would  that  I  had  fallen  no 

Amid  those  flames!  —  but  'twas  not  so  decreed. 
Alphonso,  who  foresaw  my  father's  cruelty, 
Had  borne  the  queen  and  me  on  board  a  ship 
Ready  to  sail;   and  when  this  news  was  brought, 
We  put  to  sea;   but  being  betrayed  by  some 
Who  knew  our  flight,  we  closely  were  pursued, 
And  almost  taken;   when  a  sudden  storm 
Drove  us,  and  those  that  followed,  on  the  coast 
Of  Afric;   there  our  vessel  struck  the  shore, 
And  bulging  'gainst  a  rock  was  lashed  in  pieces!  120 

But  Heaven  spared  me  for  yet  much  more  aflliction! 
Conducting  them  who  followed  us  to  shun 
The  shoal,  and  save  me  floating  on  the  waves, 
While  the  good  queen  and  my  Alphonso  perished. 


SCENE  ij  THE    MOURNING    BRIDE  379 

Leon.   Alas!  were  you  then  wedded  to  Alphonso? 

Aim.    That  day,  that  fatal  day  our  hands  were  joined. 
For  when  my  lord  beheld  the  ship  pursuing, 
And  saw  her  rate  so  far  exceeding  ours, 
He  came  to  me,  and  begged  me  by  my  love, 
I  would  consent  the  priest  should  make  us  one;  130 

That  whether  death  or  victory  ensued, 
I  might  be  his  beyond  the  power  of  fate: 
The  queen  too  did  assist  his  suit  —  I  granted; 
And  in  one  day,  was  wedded  and  a  widow. 

Leon.    Indeed  'twas  mournful. 

Aim.  'Twas  as  I  have  told  thee, 

For  which  I  mourn,  and  will  for  ever  mourn; 
Nor  will  I  change  these  black  and  dismal  robes, 
Or  ever  dry  these  swollen  and  watery  eyes; 
Or  ever  taste  content,  or  peace  of  heart. 
While  I  have  life,  and  thought  of  my  Alphonso.  140 

Leon.   Look  down,  good  Heaven,  with  pity  on    her 
sorrows. 
And  grant  that  time  may  bring  her  some  relief! 

Aim.   O  no,  time  gives  increase  to  my  afflictions. 
The  circling  hours,  that  gather  all  the  woes, 
Which  are  diffused  through  the  revolving  year, 
Come,  heavy-laden  with  the  oppressing  weight. 
To  me;   with  me,  successively,  they  leave 
The  sighs,  the  tears,  the  groans,  the  restless  cares. 
And  all  the  damps  of  grief,  that  did  retard  their  flight; 
They  shake  their  downy  wings,  and  scatter  all  150 

The  dire  collected  dews  on  my  poor  head; 
Then  fly  with  joy  and  swiftness  from  me. 

Leon.  Hark! 

The  distant  shouts  proclaim  your  father's  triumph. 

[ShoiUs  at  a  distance. 
Oh,  cease,  for  Heaven's  sake,  assuage  a  little 
This  torrent  of  your  grief;   for  much  I  fear 
'Twill  urge  his  wrath  to  see  you  drowned  in  tears, 
When  joy  appears  in  every  other  face. 


38o  THE   MOURNING   BRIDE  [act  i 

Aim.   And  joy  he  brings  to  every  other  heart, 
But  double,  double  weight  of  woe  to  mine; 
For  with  him  Garcia  comes  —  Garcia,  to  whom  i6o 

I  must  be  sacrificed,  and  all  the  vows 
I  gave  my  dear  Alphonso  basely  broken. 
No,  it  shall  never  be;   for  I  will  die; 
First,  die  ten  thousand  deaths!  —  Look  down,  look  down, 
Alphonso,  hear  the  sacred  vow  I  make;  [Kneels. 

One  moment  cease  to  gaze  on  perfect  bliss, 
And  bend  thy  glorious  eyes  to  earth  and  me; 
And  thou,  Anselmo,  if  yet  thou  art  arrived. 
Through  all  impediments  of  purging  fire," 
To  that  bright  Heaven,  where  my  Alphonso  reigns,    170 
Behold  thou  also,  and  attend  my  vow. 
If  ever  I  do  yield,  or  give  consent. 
By  any  action,  word,  or  thought,  to  wed 
Another  lord,  may  then  just  Heaven  shower  down 
Unheard-of  curses  on  me,  greater  far 
(If  such  there  be  in  angry  Heaven's  vengeance) 
Than  any  I  have  yet  endured.  —  And  now  [Rising. 

My  heart  has  some  relief;   having  so  well 
Discharged  this  debt,  incumbent  on  my  love. 
Yet  one  thing  more  I  would  engage  from  thee.  180 

Leon.    My  heart,  my  life,  and  will,  are  only  yours. 

Aim.   I  thank  thee.     'Tis  but  this;  anon,  when  all 
Are  wrapped  and  busied  in  the  general  joy. 
Thou  wilt  withdraw,  and  privately  with  me 
Steal  forth,  to  visit  good  Anselmo's  tomb. 

Leon.   Alas!  I  fear  some  fatal  resolution. 

Aim.   No,  on  my  life,  my  faith,  I  mean  no  ill, 
Nor  violence.     I  feel  myself  more  light. 
And  more  at  large,  since  I  have  made  this  vow. 
Perhaps  I  would  repeat  it  there  more  solemnly.  igo 

'Tis  that,  or  some  such  melancholy  thought. 
Upon  my  word,  no  more. 

Leon.  I  will  attend  you. 


SCENE  I]  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  38 1 

Enter  Alonzo 

Alon.   The  lord  Gonsalez  comes  to  tell  your  highness 
The  king  is  just  arrived. 

Aim.  Conduct  him  in. 

[Exit  Alonzo. 
That's  his  pretence;   his  errand  is,  I  know, 
To  fill  my  ears  with  Garcia's  valiant  deeds, 
And  gild  and  magnify  his  son's  exploits. 
But  I  am  armed  with  ice  around  my  heart, 
Not  to  be  warmed'  with  words,  or  idle  eloquence. 

Enter  Gonsalez 

Goji.    Be  every  day  of  your  long  life  like  this!  200 

The  sun,  bright  conquest,  and  your  brighter  eyes, 
Have  all  conspired  to  blaze  promiscuous  light, 
And  bless  this  day  with  most  unequalled  lustre. 
Your  royal  father,  my  victorious  lord, 
Loaden  with  spoils,  and  ever-living  laurel. 
Is  entering  now  in  martial  pomp  the  palace. 
Five  hundred  mules  precede  his  solemn  march. 
Which  groan  beneath  the  weight  of  Moorish  wealth. 
Chariots  of  war,  adorned  with  glittering  gems 
Succeed;   and  next,  a  hundred  neighing  steeds,  210 

White  as  the  fleecy  rain  on  Alpine  hills. 
That  bound  and  foam,  and  champ  the  golden  bit. 
As  they  disdained  the  victory  they  grace. 
Prisoners  of  war  in  shining  fetters  follow: 
And  captains,  of  the  noblest  blood  of  Afric, 
Sweat  by  his  chariot  wheel,  and  lick  and  grind, 
With  gnashing  teeth,  the  dust  his  triumphs  raise. 
The  swarming  populace  spread  every  wall. 
And  cling,  as  if  with  claws  they  did  enforce  2ig 

Their  hold  through  clifted  stones,  stretching  and  staring, 
As  if  they  were  all  eyes,  and  every  limb 
Would  feed  its  faculty  of  admiration : " 


382  THE    MOURNING   BRIDE  [act  i 

While  you  alone  retire,  and  shun  this  sight; 

This  sight,  which  is  indeed  not  seen  (though  twice 

The  multitude  should  gaze)  in  absence  of  your  eyes. 

Aim.    My  lord,  my  eyes  ungratefully  behold 
The  gilded  trophies  of  exterior  honours. 
Nor  will  my  ears  be  charmed  with  sounding  words. 
Or  pompous  phrase;   the  pageantry  of  souls. 
But  that  my  father  is  returned  in  safety,  230 

I  bend  to  Heaven  with  thanks. 

Qoyi_  Excellent  princess! 

But  'tis  a  task  unfit  for  my  weak  age, 
With  dying  words,  to  offer  at  your  praise. 
Garcia,  my  son,  your  beauty's  lowest  slave, 
Has  better  done,  in  proving  with  his  sword 
The  force  and  influence  of  your  matchless  charms. 

Aim.    I  doubt  not  of  the  worth  of  Garcia's  deeds. 
Which  had  been  brave,  though  I  had  ne'er  been  born. 

Leon.    Madam,  the  king!  [Flourish. 

jllfn.  My  women!     I  would  meet  him. 

[Attendants  to  Almeria  enter  in  mourning. 


Scene  II 
The  same 

Symphony  of  warlike  music.  Enter  Manuel,  attended  by 
Garcia  and  several  Officers.  Files  of  Prisoners  in 
chains,  and  Guards,  who  are  ranged  in  order  round  the 
stage.  Almeria,  attended  by  Leonora,  advances  to 
meet  Manuel,  and  kneels;  afterwards  Gonsalez  kneels, 
and  kisses  Manuel's  hand,  ivhile  Garcia  does  the  same 
to  Almeria 

Man.    Almeria,  rise!  — My  best  Gonsalez,  rise! 
What,  tears!  my  good  old  friend! 
Gon.  But  tears  of  joy. 


SCENE  II]  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  383 

Believe  me,  sir,  to  see  you  thus  has  filled 

My  eyes  with  more  delight  than  they  can  hold. 

Man.    By  Heaven,  thou  lovest  me,  and  I'm  pleased 
thou  dost! 
Take  it  for  thanks,  old  man,  that  I  rejoice 
To  see  thee  weep  on  this  occasion.  —  Some 
Here  are,  who  seem  to  mourn  at  our  success! 
Why  is't,  Almeria,  that  you  meet  our  eyes, 
Upon  this  solemn  day,  in  these  sad  weeds?"  10 

In  opposition  to  my  brightness,  you 
And  yours  are  all  like  daughters  of  affliction." 

Aim.    Forgive  me,  sir,  if  I  in  this  offend. 
The  year,  which  I  have  vowed  to  pay  to  Heaven  . 
In  mourning  and  strict  life  for  my  deliverance 
From  wreck  and  death,  wants  yet  to  be  expired. 

Ma7i.    Your  zeal  to  Heaven  is  great,  so  is  your  debt: 
Yet  something  too  is  due  to  me,  who  gave 
That  life  which  Heaven  preserved.     A  day  bestowed 
In  filial  duty,  had  atoned  and  given  20 

A  dispensation  to  your  vow.  —  No  more. 
'Twas  weak  and  wilful  —  and  a  woman's  error. 
Yet  —  upon  thought,  it  doubly  wounds  my  sight, 
To  see  that  sable  worn  upon  the  day 
Succeeding  that,  in  which  our  deadliest  foe. 
Hated  Anselmo,  was  interred.  —  By  Heaven, 
It  looks  as  thou  didst  mourn  for  him!  just  so. 
Thy  senseless  vow  appeared  to  bear  its  date, 
Not  from  that  hour  wherein  thou  w-ert  preserved, 
But  that  wherein  the  cursed  Alphonso  perished.  30 

Ha!  what!  thou  dost  not  weep  to  think  of  that? 

Gon.    Have  patience,  royal  sir;   the  princess  weeps 
To  have  offended  you.     If  fate  decreed 
One  pointed  hour  should  be  Alphonso's  loss. 
And  her  deliverance;   is  she  to  blame? 

Man.    I  tell  thee  she's  to  blame  not  to  have  feasted 
When  my  first  foe  was  laid  in  earth,  such  enmity, 
Such  detestation,  bears  my  blood  to  his; 


384  THE   MOURNINC?   BRIDE  [act  i 

My  daughter  should  have  revelled  at  his  death, 

She  should  have  made  these  palace  walls  to  shake,       40 

And  all  this  high  and  ample  roof  to  ring 

With  her  rejoicings.     What,  to  mourn,  and  weep; 

Then,  then  to  weep,  and  pray,  and  grieve!     By  Heaven, 

There's  not  a  slave,  a  shackled  slave  of  mine. 

But  should  have  smiled  that  hour,  through  all  his  care, 

And  shook  his  chains  in  transport  and  rude  harmony! 

Gon.   What  she  has  done  was  in  excess  of  goodness; 
Betrayed  by  too  much  piety,  to  seem 
As  if  she  had  offended.  —  Sure,  no  more. 

Man.   To  seem  is  to  commit,  at  this  conjuncture.     50 
I  wo'  not"  have  a  seeming  sorrow  seen 
To-day.  —  Retire,  divest  yourself  with  speed 
Of  that  offensive  black;   on  me  be  all     , 
The  violation  of  your  vow:   for  you. 
It  shall  be  your  excuse,  that  I  command  it. 

Gar.    [Kneeling.]     Your  pardon,  sir,  if  I  presume  so 
far, 
As  to  remind  you  of  your  gracious  promise. 

Man.    Rise,  Garcia  —  I  forgot.     Yet  stay,  Almeria. 

Aim.    My  boding  heart!  —  What  is  your  pleasure,  sir? 

Man.    Draw  near,  and  give  your  hand;    and,  Garcia, 
yours :  60 

Receive  this  lord,  as  one  whom  I  have  found 
Worthy  to  be  your  husband,  and  my  son. 

Gar.   Thus  let  me  kneel  to  take  —  Oh,  not  to  take  — 
But  to  devote  and  yield  myself  for  ever 
The  slave  and  creature  of  my  royal  mistress! 

Gon.   Oh,  let  me  prostrate  pay  my  worthless  thanks  — 

Man.   No  more;    my  promise  long  since  passed,  thy 
services. 
And  Garcia's  well-tried  valour,  all  oblige  me. 
This  day  we  triumph;  but  to-morrow's  sun, 
Garcia,  shall  shine  to  grace  thy  nuptials. 

Aim.  Oh!  [Faints. 

Gar.    She  faints!  help  to  support  her. 


SCENE  II]  THE   MOURNING   BRIDE  385 

Gon.  She  recovers.   71 

Man.    A  fit  of  bridal  fear;   how  is't,  Almeria? 

Aim.    A  sudden  chillness  seizes  on  my  spirits. 
Your  leave,  sir,  to  retire. 

Man.  Garcia,  conduct  her. 

[Garcia  leads  Almeria  to  the  door  and  returns. 
This  idle  vow  hangs  on  her  woman's  fears. 
I'll  have  a  priest  shall  preach  her  from  her  faith, 
And  make  it  sin  not  to  renounce  that  vow  • 

Which  I'd  have  broken.  — 

Enter  Alonzo 

Now,  what  would  Alonzo? 

Alon.    Your  beauteous  captive,  Zara,  is  arrived, 
And  with  a  train  as  if  she  still  were  wife  80 

To  Abucacim,  and  the  Moor  had  conquered. 

Man.  It  is  our  will  she  should  be  so  attended. 
Bear  hence  these  prisoners.  Garcia,  which  is  he, 
Of  whose  mute  valour  you  relate  such  wonders? 

[Prisoners  led  off. 

Gar.   Osmyn,  who  led  the  Moorish  horse;    but  he. 
Great  sir,  at  her  request,  attends  on  Zara. 

Man.    He  is  your  prisoner;  as  you  please  dispose  him. 

Gar.    I  would  oblige  him,  but  he  shuns  my  kindness; 
And  with  a  haughty  mien,  and  stern  civility. 
Dumbly  declines  all  offers;   if  he  speak,  90 

'Tis  scarce  above  a  word;   as  he  were  born 
Alone  to  do,  and  did  disdain  to  talk; 
At  least,  to  talk  where  he  must  not  command. 

Man.    Such  sullenness,  and  in  a  man  so  brave, 
Must  have  some  other  cause  than  his  captivity. 
Did  Zara,  then,  request  he  might  attend  her? 

Gar.    My  lord,  she  did. 

Man.  That,  joined  with  his  behaviour, 

Begets  a  doubt.     I'd  have  'em  watched;   perhaps 
Her  chains  hang  heavier  on  him  than  his  own. 

CONGREVE —  25 


386  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  [act  i 

Enter  Zara  and  Osmyn  hound,  conducted  by  Perez  and 
a  Guard,  and  attended  by  Selim  and  several  Mutes  and 
Eunuchs  in  a  train 

What  welcome  and  what  honours,  beauteous  Zara,      loo 

A  king  and  conqueror  can  give,  are  yours. 

A  conqueror  indeed,  where  you  are  won; 

Who  with  such  lustre  strike  admiring  eyes, 

That  had  our  pomp  been  with  your  presence  graced. 

The  expecting  crowd  had  been  deceived;   and  seen 

Their  monarch  enter  not  triumphant,  but 

In  pleasing  triumph  led;   your  beauty's  slave. 

Zara.    If  I  on  any  terms  could  condescend, 
To  like  captivity,  or  think  those  honours 
Which  conquerors  in  courtesy  bestow,  no 

Of  equal  value  with  unborrowed  rule, 
And  native  right  to  arbitrary  sway; 
I  might  be  pleased,  when  I  behold  this  train 
With  usual  homage  wait.     But  when  I  feel 
These  bonds,  I  look  with  loathing  on  myself; 
And  scorn  vile  slavery,  though  doubly  hid 
Beneath  mock  praises,  and  dissembled  state. 

Man.   Those  bonds!  'twas  my  command  you  should 
be  free. 
How  durst  you,  Perez,  disobey? 

Per.  Great  sir. 

Your  order  was,  she  should  not  wait  your  triumph;     120 
But  at  some  distance  follow,  thus  attended. 

Man.    'Tis  false!  'twas  more;   I  bid  she  should  be  free: 
If  not  in  words,  I  bid  it  by  my  eyes. 
Her  eyes  did  more  than  bid.  —  Free  her  and  hers 
With  speed  —  yet  stay  —  my  hands  alone  can  make 
Fit  restitution  here.  —  Thus  I  release  you. 
And  by  releasing  you,  enslave  myself. 

Zara.    Such  favours  so  conferred,   though  when  un- 
sought, . 
Deserve  acknowledgment  from  noble  minds. 


SCENE  II]  THE    MOURNING    BRIDE  387 

Such  thanks,  as  one  hating  to  be  obliged,  130 

Yet  hating  more  ingratitude,  can  pay, 
I  offer. 

Man.    Born  to  excel,  and  to  command! 
As  by  transcendent  beauty  to  attract 
All  eyes,  so  by  pre-eminence  of  soul 
To  rule  all  hearts. 
Garcia,  what's  he,  who  with  contracted  brow 

[Beholdini^  Osmyn  as  they  unbind  him. 
And  sullen  port,  glooms  downward  with  his  eyes; 
At  once  regardless  of  his  chains,  or  liberty? 

Gar.   That,  sir,  is  he  of  whom  I  spoke;  that's  Osmyn. 

Man.   He  answers  well  the  character  you  gave  him.  140 
Whence  comes  it,  valiant  Osmyn,  that  a  man 
So  great  in  arms,  as  thou  art  said  to  be. 
So  hardly  can  endure  captivity, 
The  common  chance  of  war? 

Osm.  Because  captivity 

Has  robbed  me  of  a  dear  and  just  revenge. 

Man.    I  understand  not  that. 

Osni.  I  would  not  have  you. 

Zara.   That  gallant  Moor  in  battle  lost  a  friend, 
Whom  more  than  Ufe  he  loved;   and  the  regret 
Of  not  revenging  on  his  foes  that  loss 
Has  caused  this  melancholy  and  despair.  150 

Mait.   She  does  excuse  him;    'tis  as  I  suspected. 

[To  GONSALEZ. 

Gon.   That  friend  may  be  herself;   seem  not  to  heed 
His  arrogant  reply;   she  looks  concerned. 

Man.   I'll  have  inquiry  made;   perhaps  his  friend 
Yet  lives,  and  is  a  prisoner.     His  name? 

Zara.    Heli. 

Man.  Garcia,  that  search  shall  be  your  care: 

It  shall  be  mine  to  pay  devotion  here : " 
At  this  fair  shrine  to  lay  my  laurels  down, 
And  raise  Love's  altar  on  the  spoils  of  war. 
Conquest  and  triumph,  now,  are  mine  no  more:  160 


388  THE   MOURNING   BRIDE  [act  i 

Nor  will  I  victory  in  camps  adore: 

For,  lingering  there,  in  long  suspense  she  stands, 

Shifting  the  prize  in  unresolving  hands: 

Unused  to  wait,  I  broke  through  her  delay. 

Fixed  her  by  force,  and  snatched  the  doubtful  day. 

Now  late  I  find  that  war  is  but  her  sport; 

In  love  the  goddess  keeps  her  awful  court: 

Fickle  in  fields,  unsteadily  she  flies, 

But  rules  with  settled  sway  in  Zara's  eyes. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  THE  SECOND 

Scene  I 

Representing  the  Aisle  of  a  Temple 

Enter  Garcia,  Heli,  and  Perez 

Gar.   This  way,  we're  told,  Osmyn  was  seen  to  walk; 
Choosing  this  lonely  mansion  of  the  dead, 
To  mourn,  brave  Heli,  thy  mistaken  fate. 

Heli.   Let  Heaven  with  thunder  to  the  centre  strike  me, 
If  to  arise  in  very  deed  from  death, 
And  to  revisit  with  my  long-closed  eyes 
This  living  light,  could  to  my  soul  or  sense, 
Afiford  a  thought,  or  show  a  ghmpse  of  joy, 
In  least  proportion  to  the  vast  delight 
I  feel  to  hear  of  Osmyn's  name;   to  hear  lo 

That  Osmyn  lives,  and  I  again  shall  see  him! 

Gar.   I've  heard,  with  admiration,  of  your  friendship. 

Per.    Yonder,  my  lord,  behold  the  noble  Moor. 

Heli.    Where?  where? 

Gar.  I  saw  him  not,  nor  any  like  him. 

Per.   I  saw  him,  when  I  spoke,  thwarting  my  view. 
And  striding  with  distempered  haste;   his  eyes 
Seemed  flame,  and  flashed  upon  me  with  a  glance; 
Then  forward  shot  their  fires,  which  he  pursued, 
As  to  some  object  frightful,"  yet  not  feared. 

Gar.   Let's  haste  to  follow  him,  and  know  the  cause.  20 

Heli.    My  lord,  let  me  entreat  you  to  forbear: 
Leave  me  alone  to  find,  and  cure  the  cause. 
I  know  his  melancholy,  and  such  starts 
Are  usual  to  his  temper.    It  might  raise  him 

389 


390  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  [act  ii 

To  act  some  violence  upon  himself, 

So  to  be  caught  in  an  unguarded  hour, 

And  when  his  soul  gives  all  her  passions  way 

Secure  and  loose  in  friendly  solitude. 

I  know  his  noble  heart  would  burst  with  shame, 

To  be  surprised  by  strangers  in  its  frailty.  3c 

Gar.    Go,  generous  Heli,  and  relieve  your  friend. 
Far  be  it  from  me,  officiously  to  pry 
Or  press  upon  the  privacies  of  others.  [Exit  Heli. 

Perez,  the  king  expects  from  our  return 
To  have  his  jealousy  confirmed  or  cleared, 
Of  that  appearing  love  which  Zara  bears 
To  Osmyn ;   but  some  other  opportunity 
Must  make  that  plain. 

Per.  To  me  'twas  long  since  plain, 

And  every  look  from  him  and  her  confirms  it. 

Gar.   If  so,  unhappiness  attends  their  love,  40 

And  I  could  pity  'em.     I  hear  some  coming. 
The  friends  perhaps  are  met;   let  us  avoid  'em. 

[They  retire. 
Enter  Almeria  and  Leonora 

Aim.    It  was  a  fancied  noise,  for  all  is  hushed. 

Leon.   It  bore  the  accent  of  a  human  voice. 

Aim.    It  was  thy  fear,  or  else  some  transient  wind 
Whistling  through  hollows  of  this  vaulted  aisle. 
We'll  listen. 

Leon.    Hark! 

Aim.   No,  all  is  hushed,  and    still  as  death.  —  'Tis 
dreadful! 
How  reverend  is  the  face  of  this  tall  pile,  s<: 

Whose  ancient  pillars  rear  their  marble  heads. 
To  bear  aloft  its  arched  and  ponderous  roof, 
By  its  own  weight  made  steadfast  and  immoveable, 
Looking  tranquillity!     It  strikes  an  awe 
And  terror  on  my  aching  sight;   the  tombs 
And  monumental  caves  of  death  look  cold, 


SCENE  II]  THE   MOURNING   BRIDE  391 

And  shoot  a  chillness  to  my  trembling  heart. 

Give  me  thy  hand,  and  let  me  hear  thy  voice; 

Nay,  quickly  speak  to  me,  and  let  me  hear 

Thy  voice  —  my  own  affrights  me  with  its  ec^hoes.        60 

Leon.   Let  us  return;   the  horrors  of  this  place, 
And  silence,  will  increase  your  melancholy. 

Aim.   It  may  my  fears,  but  cannot  add  to  that. 
No,  I  will  on;   show  me  Anselmo's  tomb. 
Lead  me  o'er  bones  and  skulls  and  mouldering  earth 
Of  human  bodies;  for  I'll  mix  with  them. 
Or  wind  me  in  the  shroud  of  some  pale  corse 
Yet  green  in  earth,  rather  than  be  the  bride 
Of  Garcia's  more  detested  bed:   that  thought 
Exerts  my  spirits;   and  my  present  fears  70 

Are  lost  in  dread  of  greater  ill.     Then  show  me. 
Lead  me,  for  I  am  bolder  grown:   lead  on 
Where  I  may  kneel,  and  pay  my  vows  again 
To  him,  to  Heaven,  and  my  Alphonso's  soul. 

Leon.   I  go;  but  Heaven  can  tell  with  what  regret. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  II 

The  Vaults  of  the  Temple 

The   Scene   opening   discovers   a    place    of  tombs.     One 
monument  fronting  the  view  greater  than  the  rest 

Enter  Heli 

Heli.    I  wander  through  this  maze  of  monuments, 
Yet  cannot  find  him.  —  Hark!    sure  'tis  the  voice 
Of  one  complaining.  —  There  it  sounds:    I'll  follow  it. 

[Exit. 
Enter  Almeria  and  Leonora 

Leon.    Behold  the  sacred  vault,  within  whose  womb 
The  poor  remains  of  good  Anselmo  rest; 


392  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  [act  ii 

Yet  fresh  and  unconsumed  by  time  or  worms! 

What  do  I  see?     O  Heaven !  either  my  eyes 

Are  false,  or  still  the  marble  door  remains 

Unclosed:  'the  iron  gates  that  lead  to  death 

Beneath,  are  still  wide-stretched  upon  their  hinge,      lo 

And  staring  on  us  with  unfolded  leaves. 

Aim.    Sure  'tis  the  friendly  yawn  of  death  for  me; 
And  that  dumb  mouth,  significant  in  show. 
Invites  me  to  the  bed  where  I  alone 
Shall  rest;   shows  me  the  grave,  where  nature,  weary 
And  long  oppressed  with  woes  and  bending  cares. 
May  lay  the  burden  down,  and  sink  in  slumbers 
Of  peace  eternal.     Death,  grim  death,  will  fold 
Me  in  his  leaden  arms,  and  press  me  close 
To  his  cold  clayey  breast;   my  father  then  20 

Will  cease  his  tyranny;   and  Garcia  too 
Will  fly  my  pale  deformity  with  loathing. 
My  soul,  enlarged  from  its  vile  bonds,  will  mount, 
And  range  the  starry  orbs,  and  milky  ways. 
Of  that  refulgent  world,  where  I  shall  swim 
In  liquid  light,  and  float  on  seas  of  bliss 
To  my  Alphonso's  soul.     O  joy  too  great! 
O  ecstasy  of  thought!     Help  me,  Anselmo; 
Help  me,  Alphonso:   take  me,  reach  thy  hand; 
To  thee,  to  thee  I  call,  to  thee,  Alphonso:  30 

O  Alphonso! 

OsMYN  ascends  from  the  tomb 

Osm.    Who  calls  that  wretched  thing  that  was  Al- 
phonso ? 
Aim.   Angels,  and  all  the  host  of  Heaven,  support  me! 
Osm.    Whence  is  that  voice,  whose  shrillness,  from  the 
grave. 
And  growing  to  his  father's  shroud,  roots  up  Alphonso? 

Aim.    Mercy!  providence!     Oh,  speak! 
Speak  to  it  quickly,  quickly!  speak  to  me, 
Comfort  me,  help  me,  hold  me,  hide  me,  hide  me, 


SCENE  II]  THE    MOURNING   BRIDE  393 

Leonora,  in  thy  bosom,  from  the  light, 
And  from  my  eyes! 

Osm.  Amazement  and  illusion !  40 

Rivet  and  nail  me  where  I  stand,  ye  powers ; 

[Coming  forward. 
That  motionless  I  m^ay  be  still  deceived. 
Let  me  not  stir,  nor  breathe,  lest  I  dissolve 
That  tender,  lovely  form  of  painted  air, 
So  like  Almeria.     Ha!    it  sinks,  it  falls; 
I'll  catch  it  ere  it  goes,  and  grasp  her  shade. 
'Tislife!  'tis  warm!  'tis  she!    'tis  she  herself! 
Nor  dead  nor  shade,  but  breathing  and  alive! 
It  is  Almeria,  'tis,  it  is  my  wife! 

Enter  Heli 

Leon.   Alas,  she  stirs  not  yet,  nor  lifts  her  eyes.         so 
He  too  is  fainting.  —  Help  me,  help  me,  stranger, 
Who'er  thou  art,  and  lend  thy  hand  to  raise 
These  bodies. 

Heli.  Ha!    'tis  he!  and  with  Almeria! 

0  miracle  of  happiness !     O  joy 
Unhoped  for!   does  Almeria  live! 

Osm.  Where  is  she? 

Let  me  behold  and  touch  her,  and  be  sure 
'Tis  she;  show  me  her  face,  and  let  me  feel 
Her  lips  with  mine.  —  'Tis  she,  I'm  not  deceived; 

1  taste  her  breath,  I  warmed  her  and  am  warmed. 
Look  up,  Almeria,  bless  me  with  thy  eyes;  60 
Look  on  thy  love,  thy  lover,  and  thy  husband. 

Aim.   I've  sworn  I'll  not  wed  Garcia;   why  d'ye  force 
me  ? 
Is  this  a  father? 

Osm.  Look  on  thy  Alphonso! 

Thy  father  is  not  here,  my  love,  nor  Garcia: 
Nor  am  I  what  I  seem,  but  thy  Alphonso. 
Wilt  thou  not  know  me?     Hast  thou  then  forgot  me? 


394  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  [act  ii 

Hast  thou  thy  eyes,  yet  canst  not  see  Alphonso? 
Am  I  so  altered,  or  art  thou  so  changed, 
That  seeing  my  disguise,  thou  seest  not  me? 

Aim.   It  is,  it  is  Alphonso!   'tis  his  face,  70 

His  voice!     I  know  him  now,  I  know  him  all. 
Oh,  take  me  to  thy  arms,  and  bear  me  hence. 
Back  to  the  bottom  of  the  boundless  deep. 
To  seas  beneath,  where  thou  so  long  hast  dwelt. 
Oh,  how  hast  thou  returned?  how  hast  thou  charmed 
The  wildness  of  the  waves  and  rocks  to  this? 
That  thus  relenting,  they  have  given  thee  back 
To  earth,  to  light  and  life,  to  love  and  me. 

Osm.    Oh,  I'll  not  ask,  nor  answer  how,  or  why 
We  both  have  backward  trod  the  paths  of  fate,  80 

To  meet  again  in  life;   to  know  I  have  thee. 
Is  knowing  more  than  any  circumstance 
Or  means  by  which  I  have  thee. 
To  fold  thee  thus,  to  press  thy  balmy  lips. 
And  gaze  upon  thy  eyes,  is  so  much  joy, 
I  have  not  leisure  to  reflect,  or  know. 
Or  trifle  time  in  thinking. 

Aim.  Stay  a  while  — 

Let  me  look  on  thee,  yet  a  little  more. 

Osm.   What  wouldst  thou?  thou  dost  put  me  from 
thee. 

Aim.        Yes. 

Osm.   And  why?  what  dost  thou  mean?  why  dost  thou 
gaze  so?  90 

Aim.   I  know  not;   'tis  to  see  thy  face,  I  think  — 
It  is  too  much!  too  much  to  bear  and  live! 
To  see  him  thus  again  is  such  profusion 
Of  joy,  of  bliss  —  I  cannot  bear  —  I  must 
Be  mad  —  I  cannot  be  transported  thus. 

Osm.   Thou   excellence,    thou    joy,   thou    heaven   of 
love! 

Aim.   Where   hast   thou    been?    and   how   art    thou 
alive? 


SCENE  II]  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  395 

How  is  all  this?     All-powerful  Heaven,  what  are  we! 
O  my  strained  heart!  —  let  me  again  behold  thee, 
For  I  weep  to  see  thee.  —  Art  thou  not  paler?  loo 

Much,  much;  how  thou  art  changed! 

Os77i.  Not  in  my  love. 

Aim.   No,  no,  thy  griefs,  I  know,  have  done  this  to 
thee. 
Thou  hast  wept  much,  Alphonso;   and,  I  fear, 
Too  much,  too  tenderly  lamented  me. 

Osm.   Wrong  not  my  love,  to  say  too  tenderly. 
No  more,  my  life;   talk  not  of  tears  or  grief; 
Affliction  is  no  more,  now  thou  art  found. 
Why  dost  thou  weep,  and  hold  thee  from  my  arms; 
My  arms  which  ache  to  fold  thee  fast,  and  grow 
To  thee  with  twining?     Come,  come  to  my  heart.       no 

Aim.   I  will,  for  I  should  never  look  enough. 
They  would  have  married  me;  but  I  had  sworn 
To  Heaven  and  thee,  and  sooner  would  have  died. 

Osm.   Perfection  of  all  faithfulness,  and  love! 

Aim.   Indeed  I  would.  —  Nay,  I  would  tell  thee  all, 
If  I  could  speak;   how  I  have  mourned  and  prayed; 
For  I  have  prayed  to  thee  as  to  a  saint: 
And  thou  hast  heard  my  prayer;   for  thou  art  come 
To  my  distress,  to  my  despair,  which  Heaven 
Could  only  by  restoring  thee  have  cured.  120 

Osrn.    Grant  me  but  life,  good  Heaven,  but  length  of 
days. 
To  pay  some  part,  some  little  of  this  debt, 
This  countless  sum  of  tenderness  and  love, 
For  which  I  stand  engaged  in  this  all-excellence: 
Then  bear  me  in  a  whirlwind  to  my  fate, 
Snatch  me  from  life,  and  cut  me  short  unwarned; 
Then,  then  'twill  be  enough!  —  I  shall  be  old, 
I  shall  have  lived  beyond  all  eras  then 
Of  yet  unmeasured  time;  when  I  have  made 
This  exquisite,  this  most  amazing  goodness,  130 

Some  recompense  of  love  and  matchless  truth. 


396  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  [act  ii 

Aim.    'Tis  more  than  recompense  to  see  thy  face 
If  Heaven  is  greater  joy,  it  is  no  happiness, 
For  'tis  not  to  be  borne.  —  What  shall  I  say? 
I  have  a  thousand  things  to  know,  and  ask, 
And  speak.  —  That  thou  art  here,  beyond  all  hope. 
All  thought;   that  all  at  once  thou  art  before  me 
And  with  such  suddenness  hast  hit  my  sight. 
Is  such  surprise,  such  mystery,  such  ecstasy; 
It  hurries  all  my  soul,  and  stuns  my  sense.  140 

Sure  from  thy  father's  tomb  thou  didst  arise. 

Osm.   I  did;  and  thou,  my  love,  didst  call  me;  thou. 

Aim.   True;    but  how  earnest  thou  there;    wert  thou 
alone? 

Osm.    I  was,  and  lying  on  my  father's  lead," 
When  broken  echoes  of  a  distant  voice 
Disturbed  the  sacred  silence  of  the  vault, 
In  murmurs  round  my  head.     I  rose  and  listened, 
And  thought  I  heard  thy  spirit  call  Alphonso; 
I  thought  I  saw  thee  too;   but  oh,  I  thought  not 
That  I  indeed  should  be  so  blest  to  see  thee!  150 

Aim.    But  still,  how  earnest  thou  hither?  how  thus?  — 
Ha! 
What's  he,  who  like  thyself  is  started  here 
Ere  seen? 

Osm.         Where?  ha!  what  do  I  see?  Antonio! 
I'm  fortunate  indeed!  —  my  friend  too,  safe! 

Heli.    Most  happily,  in  finding  you  thus  blessed. 

Aim.    More  miracles!     Antonio  too  escaped! 

Osm.   And  twice  escaped,  both  from  the  rage  of  seas 
And  war:    for  in  the  fight  I  saw  him  fall. 

Heli.  But  fell  unhurt,  a  prisoner  as  yourself, 
And  as  yourself  made  free;  hither  I  came  160 

Impatiently  to  seek  you,  where  I  knew 
Your  grief  would  lead  you,  to  lament  Ansel  mo. 

Osm.   There  are  no  wonders,  or  else  all  is  wonder. 

Heli.   I  saw  you  on  the  ground,  and  raised  you  up: 
When  with  astonishment  I  saw  Almeria. 


SCENE  II]  THE    MOURNING    BRIDE  397 

Osni.    I  saw  her  too,  and  therefore  saw  not  thee. 

Aim.   Nor  I;   nor  could  I,  for  my  eyes  were  yours. 

Osm.   What  means  the  bounty  of  all-gracious  Heaven, 
That  persevering  still,  with  open  hand, 
It  scatters  good,  as  in  a  waste  of  mercy!  170 

Where  will  this  end!  but  Heaven  is  infinite 
In  all,  and  can  continue  to  bestow. 
When  scanty  number  shall  be  spent  in  teUing. 

Leon.   Or  I'm  deceived,  or  "  I  behold  the  glimpse 
Of  two  in  shining  habits  cross  the  aisle; 
Who  by  their  pointing  seem  to  mark  this  place. 

Aim.    Sure  I  have  dreamt,  if  we  must  part  so  soon. 

Osm.    I  wish,  at  least,  our  parting  were  a  dream, 
Or  we  could  sleep  till  we  again  were  met. 

Heli.   Zara  with  Selim,  sir;    I  saw  and  know  'em;  iSo 
You  must  be  quick,  for  love  will  lend  her  wings. 

Aim.   What  love?  who  is  she?  why  are  you  alarmed? 

Osm.    She's  the  reverse  of  thee;  she's  my  unhappiness. 
Harbour  no  thought  that  may  disturb  thy  peace; 
But  gently  take  thyself  away,  lest  she 
Should  come,  and  see  the  straining  of  my  eyes 
To  follow  thee.     I'll  think  how  we  may  meet 
To  part  no  more.     My  friend  will  tell  thee  all; 
How  I  escaped,  how  I  am  here,  and  thus; 
How  I'm  not  called  Alphonso,  now,  but  Osmyn;         igo 
And  he  Heli.     All,  all  he  will  unfold, 
Ere  next  we  meet. 

Aim.  Sure  we  shall  meet  again 

Osm.   We  shall:  we  part  not  but  to  meet  again. 
Gladness  and  warmth  of  ever-kindling  love 
Dwell  with  thee,  and  revive  thy  heart  in  absence. 

[Exeunt. 


398  THE   MOURNING   BRIDE  [act  ii 

Scene  III 

The  same 

OsMYN,  alone 

Osm.   Yet  I  behold  her  —  yet  —  and  now  no  more. 
Turn  your  lights  inward,  eyes,  and  view  my  thought, 
So  shall  you  still  behold  her  —  'twill  not  be. 
O  impotence  of  sight!  mechanic  sense, 
Which  to  exterior  objects  owest  thy  faculty, 
Not  seeing  of  election,  but  necessity. 
Thus  do  our  eyes,  as  do  all  common  mirrors, 
Successively  reflect  succeeding  images; 
Not  what  they  would,  but  must;   a  star,  or  toad: 
Just  as  the  hand  of  chance  administers.  lo 

Not  so  the  mind,  whose  undetermined  view 
Revolves,  and  to  the  present  adds  the  past: 
Essaying  further  to  futurity; 
But  that  in  vain.     I  have  Almeria  here  — 
At  once,  as  I  before  have  seen  her  often. 

Enter  Zara  and  Selim 

Zara.    See  where  he  stands,  folded  and  fixed  to  earth, 
Stiffening  in  thought  a  statue  among  statues! 
Why,  cruel  Osmyn,  dost  thou  fly  me  thus? 
Is  it  well  done?     Is  this  then  the  return 
For  fame,  for  honour,  and  for  empire  lost?  20 

But  what  is  loss  of  honour,  fame  and  empire! 
Is  this  the  recompense  reserved  for  love? 
Why  dost  thou  leave  my  eyes,  and  fly  my  arms, 
To  find  this  place  of  horror  and  obscurity? 
Am  I  more  loathsome  to  thee  than  the  grave, 
That  thou  dost  seek  to  shield  thee  there,  and  shun 
My  love?     But  to  the  grave  I'll  follow  thee.  — 


SCENK  III]  THE    MOURNING    BRIDE  399 

He  looks  not,. minds  not,  hears  not.  —  Barbarous  man, 
Am  I  neglected  thus?  am  I  despised? 
Not  heard?  ungrateful  Osmyn! 

Osm.  Ha,  'tis  Zara!  30 

Zara.   Yes,  traitor!  Zara,  lost,  abandoned  Zara, 
Is  a  regardless  suppliant,  now,  to  Osmyn. 
The  slave,  the  wretch  that  she  redeemed  from  death, 
Disdains  to  listen  now,  or  look  on  Zara. 

Osm.    Far  be  the  guilt  of  such  reproaches  from  me; 
Lost  in  myself,  and  blinded  by  my  thoughts, 
I  saw  you  not,  till  now. 

Zara.  Now  then  you  see  me  — 

But  with  such  dumb  and  thankless  eyes  you  look, 
Better  I  was  unseen,  than  seen  thus  coldly. 

Osm.   What  would  you  from  a  wretch  who  came  to 
mourn,  40 

And  only  for  his  sorrows  chose  this  solitude? 
Look  round;  joy  is  not  here,  nor  cheerfulness. 
You  have  pursued  misfortune  to  its  dwelling, 
Yet  look  for  gaiety  and  gladness  there. 

Zara.    Inhuman!  why,  why  dost  thou  rack  me  thus? 
And  with  perverseness  from  the  purpose  answer? 
What  is't  to  me,  this  house  of  misery? 
What  joy  do  I  require?     If  thou  dost  mourn, 
I  come  to  mourn  with  thee;   to  share  thy  griefs, 
And  give  thee,  for  'em,  in  exchange  my  love.  50 

Osm.    Oh,  that's  the  greatest  grief!  — I  am  so  poor, 
I  have  not  wherewithal  to  give  again. 

Zara.   Thou  hast  a  heart,  though  'tis  a  savage  one; 
Give  it  me  as  it  is;   I  ask  no  more 
For  all  I've  done,  and  all  I  have  endured; 
For  saving  thee,  when  I  beheld  thee  first, 
Driven  by  the  tide  upon  my  country's  coast. 
Pale  and  expiring,  drenched  in  briny  waves, 
Thou  and  thy  friend,  till  my  compassion  found  thee; 
Compassion!  scarce  will't  own  that  name,  so  soon,       60 
So  quickly  was  it  love;   for  thou  wert  godlike 


400  THE  MOURNING   BRIDE  [act  ii 

Even  then.     Kneeling  on  earth,  I  loosed  my  hair; 

And  with  it  dried  thy  wat'ry  cheeks;   then  chafed 

Thy  temples,  till  reviving  blood  arose. 

And  like  the  morn  vermilioned  o'er  thy  face. 

0  Heaven!  how  did  my  heart  rejoice  and  ache 

When  I  beheld  the  daybreak  of  thy  eyes, 

And  felt  the  balm  of  thy  respiring  lips! 

Osm.   Oh,    call    not  to    my    mind    what   you    have 
done; 
It  sets  a  debt  of  that  account  before  me,  70 

Which  shows  me  poor,  and  bankrupt  even  in  hopes. 

Zara.   The  faithful  Selim  and  my  women  know 
The  dangers  which  I  tempted  to  conceal  you. 
You  know  how  I  abused  the  credulous  king; 
What  arts  I  used  to  make  you  pass  on  him, 
When  he  received  you  as  the  Prince  of  Fez; 
And  as  my  kinsman,  honoured  and  advanced  you. 
Oh,  why  do  I  relate  what  I  have  done? 
What  did  I  not?     Was't  not  for  you  this  war 
Commenced?  not  knowing  who  you  were,  nor  why      80 
You  hated  Manuel,  I  urged  my  husband 
To  this  invasion;  where  he  late  was  lost, 
Where  all  is  lost,  and  I  am  made  a  slave. 
Look  on  me  now,  from  empire  fallen  to  slavery; 
Think  on  my  sufferings  first,  then  look  on  me; 
Think  on  the  cause  of  all,  then  view  thyself: 
Reflect  on  Osmyn,  and  then  look  on  Zara, 
The  fallen,  thejost,  and  now  the  captive  Zara, 
And  now  abandoned  —  say,  what  then  is  Osmyn? 

Osm.   A  fatal  wretch  —  a  huge  stupendous  ruin,        go 
That  tumbling  on  its  prop,  crushed  all  beneath. 
And  bore  contiguous  palaces  to  earth. 

Zara.   Yet  thus,  thus  fallen,  thus  levelled  with  the 
vilest. 
If  I  have  gained  thy  love,  'tis  glorious  ruin; 
Ruin!  'tis  still  to  reign,  and  to  be  more 
A  queen;   for  what  are  riches,  empire,  power, 


SCENE  III]  THE    MOURNING    BRIDE  4OI 

But  larger  means  to  gratify  the  will? 
The  steps  on  which  we  tread,  to  rise,  and  reach 
Our  wish;  and  that  obtained,  down  with  the  scaffolding 
Of  sceptres,  crowns,  and  thrones!  they've  served  their 
end,  100 

And  are,  like  lumber,  to  be  left  and  scorned. 

Osm.    Why  was  I  made  the  instrument  to  throw 
In  bonds  the  frame  of  this  exalted  mind? 

Zara.   We  may  be  free;  the  conqueror  is  mine; 
In  chains  unseen  I  hold  him  by  the  heart, 
And  can  unwind  or  strain  him  as  I  please. 
Give  me  thy  love,  I'll  give  thee  liberty. 

Osm.   In  vain  you  offer,  and  in  vain  require 
What  neither  can  bestow:   set  free  yourself. 
And  leave  a  slave  the  wretch  that  would  be  so.  1 10 

Zara.   Thou  canst  not  mean  so  poorly  as  thou  talk'st. 

Osm.   Alas!  you  know  me  not. 

Zara.  Not  who  thou  art: 

But  what  this  last  ingratitude  declares, 
This  grovelling  baseness.  —  Thou  say'st  true,  I  know 
Thee  not,  for  what  thou  art  yet  wants  a  name: 
But  something  so  unworthy,  and  so  vile. 
That  to  have  loved  thee  makes  me  yet  more  lost. 
Than  all  the  malice  of  my  other  fate. 
Traitor!  monster!  cold  and  perfidious  slave! 
A  slave,  not  daring  to  be  free!  nor  dares  120 

To  love  above  him,  for  'tis  dangerous: 
'Tis  that  I  know;   for  thou  dost  look,  with  eyes   - 
Sparkling  desire,  and  trembling  to  possess. 
I  know  my  charms  have  reached  thy  very  soul. 
And  thrilled  thee  through  with  darted  fires;   but  thou 
Dost  fear  so  much,  thou  darest  not  wish.     The  king! 
There,    there's    the    dreadful    sound,    the    king's    thy 
rival ! 

Sel.    Madam,  the  king  is  here,  and  entering  now. 

Zara.    As  I  could  wish:   by  Heaven  I'll  be  revenged! 

CONGREVE —  26 


402  THE    MOURNING    BRIDE  [act   ir 

Enter  Manuel,  Perez,  and  Attendants 

Man.    Why  does  the  fairest  of  her  kind  withdraw    130 
Her  shining  from  the  day,  to  gild  this  scene 
Of  death  and  night?     Ha!  what  disorder's  this? 
Somewhat  I  heard  of  king  and  rival  mentioned. 
What's  he  that  dares  be  rival  to  the  king? 
Or  lift  his  eyes  to  like,  where  I  adore? 

Zara.   There,  he;  your  prisoner,  and  that  was  my  slave. 

Man.    [Aside.]     How?     Better  than  my  hopes!  does 
she  accuse  him? 

Zara.  Am  I  become  so  low  by  my  captivity, 
And  do  your  arms  so  lessen  what  they  conquer, 
That  Zara  must  be  made  the  sport  of  slaves?  140 

And  shall  the  wretch,  whom  yester  sun  beheld 
Waiting  my  nod,  the  creature  of  my  power, 
Presume  to-day  to  plead  audacious  love. 
And  build  bold  hopes  on  my  dejected  fate? 

Man.    Better  for  him  to  tempt  the  rage  of  Heaven, 
And  wrench  the  bolt  red-hissing  from  the  hand 
Of  him  that  thunders,  than  but  think  that  insolence. 
'Tis  daring  for  a  god.     Hence,  to  the  wheel 
With  that  Ixion,  who  aspires  to  hold 
Divinity  "  embraced!  to  whips  and  prisons  150 

Drag  him  with  speed,  and  rid  me  of  his  face. 

[Guards  seize  Osmyn. 

Zara.    Compassion  led  me  to  bemoan  his  state, 
Whose  former  faith  had  merited  much  more; 
And  through  my  hopes  in  you,  I  undertook 
He  should  be  set  at  large;   thence  sprung  his  insolence. 
And  what  was  charity  he  construed  love. 

Man.    Enough;   his  punishment  be  what  you  please. 
But  let  me  lead  you  from  this  place  of  sorrow. 
To  one,  where  young  delights  attend;   and  joys 
Yet  new,  unborn,  and  blooming  in  the  bud,  160 

Which  wait  to  be  full-blown  at  your  approach. 
And  spread  like  roses  to  the  morning  sun: 


scENK  III]  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  403 

Where  every  hour  shall  roll  in  circling  joys, 
And  love  shall  wing  the  tedious-wasting  day: 
Life  without  love  is  load;   and  time  stands  still: 


What  we  refuse  to  him,  to  death  we  give; 
And  then,  then  only,  when  we  love,  we  live. 


[Exeunt. 


ACT  THE  THIRD 

Scene  I 

The  Inside  of  a  Prison 

OsMYN  in  chains,  alone,  with  a  paper 

Osni.   But  now  and  I  was  closed  within  the  tomb 
That  holds  my  father's  ashes;   and  but  now, 
Where  he  was  prisoner,  I  am  too  imprisoned. 
Sure  'tis  the  hand  of  Heaven  that  leads  me  thus. 
And  for  some  purpose  points  out  these  remembrances. 
In  a  dark  corner  of  my  cell  I  found 
This  paper,  what  it  is  this  light  will  show. 
[Reads.]    "If  my  Alphonso"  —  ha! 
"If  my  Alphonso  live,  restore  him,  Heaven; 
Give  me  more  weight,  crush  my  declining  years  lo 

With  bolts,  with  chains,  imprisonment,  and  want; 
But  bless  my  son,  visit  not  him  for  me." 
It  is  his  hand;  this  was  his  prayer  —  yet  more: 
[Reads.]     "Let  every  hair,  which  sorrow  by  the  roots 
Tears  from  my  hoary  and  devoted  head, 
Be  doubled  in  thy  mercies  to  my  son: 
Not  for  myself,  but  him,  hear  me,  all  gracious  — " 
'Tis  wanting  what  should  follow  —  Heaven  should  follow, 
But  'tis  torn  off  t-  why  should  that  word  alone 
Be  torn  from  his  petition?     'Twas  to  Heaven,  20 

But  Heaven  was  deaf.  Heaven  heard  him  not;  but  thus. 
Thus  as  the  name  of  Heaven  from  this  is  torn, 
So  did  it  tear  the  ears  of  mercy  from 
His  voice,  shutting  the  gates  of  prayer  against  him. 
If  piety  be  thus  debarred  access 

404 


SCENE  I]  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  405 

On  high,  and  of  good  men  the  very  best 

Is  singled  out  to  bleed,  and  bear  the  scourge, 

What  is  reward?  or  what  is  punishment? 

But  who  shall  dare  to  tax  eternal  justice? 

Yet  I  may  think  —  I  may,  I  must ;   for  thought  30 

Precedes  the  will  to  think,  and  error  lives 

Ere  reason  can  be  born.     Reason,  the  power 

To  guess  at  right  and  wrong,  the  twinkling  lamp 

Of  wandering  life,  that  winks  and  wakes  by  turns," 

Fooling  the  follower,  betwixt  shade  and  shining. 

What  noise!     Who's  there? 

My  friend!  how  camest  thou  hither! 

Enter  Heli 

Heli.   The  time's  too  precious  to  be  spent  in  telling; 
The  captain,  influenced  by  Almeria's  power. 
Gave  order  to  the  guards  for  my  admittance.  40 

Osm.    How  does  Almeria?     But  I  know  she  is 
As  I  am.     Tell  me,  may  I  hope  to  see  her? 

Heli.   You  may:   anon,  at  midnight,  when  the  king 
Is  gone  to  rest,  and  Garcia  is  retired, 
(Who  takes  the  privilege  to  visit  late, 
Presuming  on  a  bridegroom's  right,)  she'll  come. 

Osm.    She'll  come!  'tis  what  I  wish,  yet  what  I  fear. 
She'll  come;  but  whither,  and  to  whom?     O  Heaven! 
To  a  vile  prison,  and  a  captived  wretch; 
To  one,  whom  had  she  never  known,  she  had  50 

Been  happy.     Why,  why  was  that  heavenly  creature 
Abandoned  o'er  to  love  what  Heaven  forsakes? 
Why  does  she  follow,  with  unwearied  steps, 
One  who  has  tired  misfortune  with  pursuing: 
One,  driven  about  the  world  like  blasted  leaves 
And  chaff,  the  sport  of  adverse  winds;   till  late 
At  length,  imprisoned  in  some  cleft  of  rock, 
Or  earth,  it  rests,  and  rots  to  silent  dust. 

Heli.   Have  hopes,  and  hear  the  voice  of  better  fate. 


406  THE    MOURNINCx    BRIDE  [act  hi 

I've  learned  there  are  disorders  ripe  for  mutiny  60 

Among  the  troops,  who  thought  to  share  the  plunder, 

Which  Manuel  to  his  own  use  and  avarice 

Converts.     This  news  has  reached  Valentia's  frontiers: 

Where  many  of  your  subjects,  long  oppressed 

With  tyranny  and  grievous  impositions, 

Are  risen  in  arms,  and  call  for  chiefs  to  head 

And  lead  'em  to  regain  their  rights  and  liberty. 

Osm.    By  Heaven  thou'st  roused  me  from  my  lethargy ! 
The  spirit  which  was  deaf  to  my  own  wrongs, 
And  the  loud  cries  of  my  dead  father's  blood;  70 

Deaf  to  revenge  —  nay,  which  refused  to  hear 
The  piercing  sighs  and  murmurs  of  my  love 
Yet  unenjoyed;   what  not  Almeria  could 
Revive,  or  raise,  my  people's  voice  has  wakened. 

0  my  Antonio,  I  am  all  on  fare. 

My  soul  is  up  in  arms,  ready  to  charge 

And  bear  amidst  the  foe,  with  conquering  troops. 

1  hear  'em  call  to  lead  'em  on  to  liberty. 
To  victory;   their  shouts  and  clamours  rend 

My  ears,  and  reach  the  Heavens:   Where  is  the  king?  80 

Where  is  Alphonso?  —  Ha!     Where,  where  indeed! 

Oh,  I  could  tear  and  burst  the  strings  of  life, 

To  break  these  chains!     Off,  off  ye  stains  of  royalty! 

Off,  slavery!     O  curse!  that  I  alone 

Can  beat  and  flutter  in  my  cage,  when  I 

Would  soar  and  stoop  at  victory  beneath. 

Heli.    Our  posture  of  affairs,  and  scanty  time, 
My  lord,  require  you  should  compose  yourself, 
And  think  on  what  we  may  reduce  to  practice. 
Zara,  the  cause  of  your  restraint,  may  be  90 

The  means  of  liberty  restored.     That  gained. 
Occasion  will  not  fail  to  point  out  ways 
For  your  escape.     Meantime,  I've  thought  already 
With  speed  and  safety  to  convey  myself 
Where  not  far  off  some  malcontents  hold  council 
Nightly;  who  hate  this  tyrant;  some,  who  love 


SCENE  I]  THE   MOURNING   BRIDE  407 

Anselmo's  memory,  and  will,  for  certain, 

When  they  shall  know  you  live,  assist  your  cause. 

Osm.    My  friend  and  counsellor,  as  thou  think'st  fit, 
So  do.     I  will  with  my  patience  wait  my  fortune.        100 

Heli.    When  Zara  comes,  abate  of  your  aversion. 

Osm.   I  hate  her  not,  nor  can  dissemble  love: 
But  as  I  may,  I'll  do.     I  have  a  paper 
Which  I  would  show  thee,  friend,  but  that  the  sight 
Would  hold  thee  here,  and  clog  thy  expedition. 
Within  I  found  it,  by  my  father's  hand 
'Twas  writ;   a  prayer  for  me,  wherein  appears 
Paternal  love  prevaiHng  o'er  his  sorrows; 
Such  sanctity,  such  tenderness  so  mixed 
With  grief  as  would  draw  tears  from  inhumanity,        no 

Heli.   The  care  of  Providence  sure  left  it  there, 
To  arm  your  mind  with  hope.     Such  piety 
Was  never  heard  in  vain:  Heaven  has  in  store 
For  you  those  blessings  it  withheld  from  him. 
In  that  assurance  live;   which  time,  I  hope, 
And  our  next  meeting  will  confirm. 

Osm.  Farewell, 

My  friend;  the  good  thou  dost  deserve  attend  thee. 

[Exit  Heli. 
I  have  been  to  blame,  and  questioned  with  impiety 
The  care  of  Heaven.     Not  so  my  father  bore 
More  anxious  grief.     This  should  have  better  taught  me; 
This  lesson,  in  some  hour  of  inspiration,  121 

By  him  set  down;   when  his  pure  thoughts  were  borne, 
Like  fumes  of  sacred  incense,  o'er  the  clouds. 
And  wafted  thence  on  angels'  wings  through  ways 
Of  light,  to  the  bright  source  of  all.     For  there 
He  in  the  book  of  prescience  saw  this  day; 
And  waking,  to  the  world,  and  mortal  sense, 
Left  this  example  of  his  resignation. 
This  his  last  legacy  to  me,  which,  here, 
I'll  treasure  as  more  worth  than  diadems,  130 

Or  all  extended  rule  of  regal  power. 


408  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  [act  hi 

Enter  Zara,  veiled 

What  brightness  breaks  upon  me  thus  through  shades, 
And  promises  a  day  to  this  dark  dwelling? 
Is  it  my  love?  — 

Zara.  Oh,  that  my  heart  had  taught 

Thy  tongue  that  saying.  [Lifting  up  her  veil. 

Osm.  Zara!  [Aside.]     I  am  betrayed 

By  my  surprise. 

Zara.  What,  does  my  face  displease  thee? 

That  having  seen  it,  thou  dost  turn  thy  eyes 
Away,  as  from  deformity  and  horror. 
If  so,  this  sable  curtain  shall  again 

Be  drawn,  and  I  will  stand  before  thee  seeing,  140 

And  unseen.     "Is  it  my  love?"  ask  again 
That  question,  speak  again  in  that  soft  voice, 
And  look  again  with  wishes  in  thy  eyes. 
Oh,  no,  thou  canst  not,  for  thou  seest  me  now, 
As  she  whose  savage  breast  has  been  the  cause 
Of  these  thy  wrongs;   as  she  whose  barbarous  rage 
Has  loaden  thee  with  chains  and  galling  irons: 
Well  dost  thou  scorn  me,  and  upbraid  my  falseness; 
Could  one  who  loved,  thus  torture  whom  she  loved? 
No,  no,  it  must  be  hatred,  dire  revenue,  150 

And  detestation,  that  could  use  thee  thus. 
So  thou  dost  think;   then  do  but  tell  me  so. 
Tell  me,  and  thou  shalt  see  how  I'll  revenge 
Thee  on  this  false  one,  how  I'll  stab  and  tear 
This  heart  of  flint  till  it  shall  bleed;  and  thou 
Shalt  weep  for  mine,  forgetting  thy  own  miseries. 

Osm.   You  wrong  me,  beauteous  Zara,  to  believe 
I  bear  my  fortunes  with  so  low  a  mind, 
As  still  to  meditate  revenge  on  all 

Whom  chance,  or  fate,  working  by  secret  causes,         160 
Has  made  perforce  subservient  to  that  end 
The  heavenly  powers  allot  me;  no,  not  you. 
But  destiny  and  inauspicious  stars 


SCENE  I]  THE    MOURNING    15RIDE  409 

Have  cast  me  down  to  this  low  being:  or, 
Granting  you  had,  from  you  I  have  deserved  it. 

Zara.   Canst  thou  forgive  me  then?  wilt  thou  believe 
So  kindly  of  my  fault,  to  call  it  madness? 
Oh,  give  that  madness  yet  a  milder  name. 
And  call  it  passion;   then,  be  still  more  kind, 
And  call  that  passion  love. 

Osm.  Give  it  a  name,  170 

Or  being  as  you  please,  such  I  will  think  it. 

Zara.   Oh,  thou  dost  wound  me  more  with  this  thy 
goodness. 
Than  e'er  thou  couldst  with  bitterest  reproaches! 
Thy  anger  could  not  pierce  thus  to  my  heart. 

Osm.   Yet  I  could  wish  — 

Zara.  Haste  me  to  know  it:  what? 

Osm.   That  at  this  time  I  had  not  been  this  thing. 

Zara.   What  thing? 

Osm.  This  slave. 

Zara.  O  Heaven!  my  fears  interpret 

This  thy  silence:  somewhat  of  high  concern, 
Long  fashioning  within  thy  labouring  mind. 
And  now  just  ripe  for  birth,  my  rage  has  ruined.  180 

Have  I  done  this?     Tell  me,  am  I  so  cursed? 

Osm.   Time  may  have  still  one  fated  hour  to  come, 
Which,  winged  with  Hberty,  might  overtake 
Occasion  past. 

Zara.  Swift  as  occasion,  I 

Myself  will  fly;  and  earlier  than  the  morn 
Wake  thee  to  freedom.     Now  'tis  late;  and  yet 
Some  news  few  minutes  past  arrived  which  seemed 
To  shake  the  temper  of  the  king.  —  Who  knows 
What  racking  cares  disease  a  monarch's  bed? 
Or  love,  that  late  at  night  still  lights  his  lamp,  190 

And  strikes  his  rays  through  dusk,  and  folded  lids, 
Forbidding  rest,  may  stretch  his  eyes  awake, 
And  force  their  balls  abroad  at  this  dead  hour. 
I'll  try. 


410  THE    MOURNING   BRIDE  [act  hi 

Osm.       I  have  not  merited  this  grace; 
Nor,  should  my  secret  purpose  take  effect, 
Can  I  repay,  as  you  require  such  benefits. 

Zara.   Thou  canst  not  owe  me  more,  nor  have  I  more 
To  give,  than  I've  already  lost.     But  now, 
So  does  the  form  of  our  engagements  rest, 
Thou  hast  the  wrong,  till  I  redeem  thee  hence;  200 

That  done,  I  leave  thy  justice  to  return 
My  love.     Adieu.  [Exit. 

Osm.  This  woman  has  a  soul 

Of  godlike  mould,  intrepid  and  commanding. 
And  challenges,  in  spite  of  me,  my  best 
Esteem;  to  this  she's  fair,  few  more  can  boast 
Of  personal  charms,  or  with  less  vanity 
Might  hope  to  captivate  the  hearts  of  kings. 
But  she  has  passions  which  outstrip  the  wind. 
And  tear  her  virtues  up,  as  terhpests  root 
The  sea.     I  fear  when  she  shall  know  the  truth,  210 

Some  swift  and  dire  event  of  her  blind  rage 
Will  make  all  fatal.     But  behold  she  comes 
For  whom  I  fear,  to  shield  me  from  my  fears, 
The  cause  and  comfort  of  my  boding  heart. 

Enter  Almeria 

My  life,  my  health,  my  liberty,  my  all ! 

How  shall  I  welcome  thee  to  this  sad  place? 

How  speak  to  thee  the  words  of  joy  and  transport? 

How  fun  into  thy  arms,  withheld  by  fetters ; 

Or  take  thee  into  mine,  while  I'm  thus  manacled 

And  pinioned  like  a  thief  or  murderer?  220 

Shall  I  not  hurt  and  bruise  thy  tender  body. 

And  stain  thy  bosom  with  the  rust  of  these 

Rude  irons?     Must  I  meet  thee  thus,  Almeria? 

Aim.   Thus,  thus;  we  parted,  thus  to  meet  again. 
Thou  told'st  me  thou  wouldst  think  how  we  might  meet 
To  part  no  more.  —  Now  we  will  part  no  more; 


SCENE  I]  THE   MOURNING   BRIDE  4II 

For  these  thy  chains,  or  death,  shall  join  us  ever. 

Osm.   Hard  means  to  ratify  that  word!  —  O  cruelty! 
That  ever  I  should  think  beholding  thee 
A  torture !  —  Yet,  such  is  the  bleeding  anguish  230 

Of  my  heart,  to  see  thy  sufferings.  —  O  Heaven ! 
That  I  could  almost  turn  my  eyes  away, 
Or  wish  thee  from  my  sight. 

Aim.  Oh,  say  not  so! 

Though  'tis  because  thou  lovest  me.     Do  not  say, 
On  any  terms,  that  thou  dost  wish  me  from  thee. 
No,  no,  'tis  better  thus,  that  we  together 
Feed  on  each  other's  heart,  devour  our  woes 
With  mutual  appetite;  and  mingling  in 
One  cup  the  common  stream  of  both  our  eyes. 
Drink  bitter  draughts,  with  never-slaking  thirst.  240 

Thus  better,  than  for  any  cause  to  part. 
What  dost  thou  think?     Look  not  so  tenderly 
Upon  me  —  speak,  and  take  me  in  thy  arms  — 
Thou  canst  not!  thy  poor  arms  are  bound,  and  strive 
In  vain  with  the  remorseless  chains  which  gnaw 
And  eat  into  thy  flesh,  festering  thy  limbs 
With  rankUng  rust. 

Osm.  Oh!    Oh! 

Aim.  Give  me  that  sigh. 

Why  dost  thou  heave  and  stifle  in  thy  griefs? 
Thy  heart  will  burst,  thy  eyes  look  red  and  start; 
Give  thy  soul  way,  and  tell  me  thy  dark  thought.         250 

Osm.   For  this  world's  rule  I  would  not  wound  thy 
breast 
With  such  a  dagg.er  as  then  stuck  my  heart. 

Aim.   Why?  why?  to  know  it  cannot  wound  me  more, 
Than  knowing  thou  hast  felt  it.     Tell  it  me. 
Thou  givest  me  pain  with  too  much  tenderness. 

Osm.   And  thy  excessive  love  distracts  my  sense! 
Oh,  wouldst  thou  be  less  killing,  soft  or  kind. 
Grief  could  not  double  thus  his  darts  against  me. 

Aim.   Thou  dost  me  wrong,  and  grief  too  robs  my  heart, 


412  THE    MOURNING   BRIDE  [act  hi 

If  there  he  shoot  not  every  other  shaft;  260 

Thy  second  self  should  feel  each  other  wound, 
And  woe  should  be  in  equal  portions  dealt, 
I  am  thy  wife  — 

Osm.  Oh,  thou  hast  searched  too  deep! 

There,  there  I  bleed!  there  pull  the  cruel  cords, 
That  strain  my  cracking  nerves;  engines  and  wheels, 
That  piecemeal  grind,  are  beds  of  down  and  balm 
To  that  soul-racking  thought. 

Aim.  Then  I  itm  cursed 

Indeed,  if  that  be  so;  if  I'm  thy  torment, 
Kill  me,  then  kill  me;  dash  me  with  thy  chains, 
Tread  on  me!     What!  am  I  the  bosom-snake,  270 

That  sucks  thy  warm  life-blood,  and  gnaws  thy  heart? 
Oh,  that  thy  words  had  force  to  break  those  bonds, 
As  they  have  strength  to  tear  this  heart  in  sunder! 
So  shouldst  thou  be  at  large  from  all  oppression. 
Am  I,  am  I  of  all  thy  woes  the  worst? 

Osm.   My  all  of  bUss,  my  everlasting  life, 
Soul  of  my  soul,  and  end  of  all  my  wishes, 
Why  dost  thou  thus  unman  me  with  thy  words. 
And  melt  me  down  to  mingle  with  thy  weepings? 
Why  dost  thou  ask?  why  dost  thou  talk  thus  piercingly? 
Thy  sorrows  have  disturbed  thy  peace  of  mind,  281 

And  thou  dost  speak  of  miseries  impossible. 

Aim.   Didst  thou  not  say  that  racks  and  wheels  were 
balm, 
And  beds  of  ease,  to  thinking  me  thy  wife? 

Osm.   No,  no;   nor  should  the  subtlest  pains  that  hell. 
Or  hell-born  malice  can  invent,  extort 
A  wish  or  thought  from  me,  to  have  thee  other. 
But  thou  wilt  know  what  harrows  up  my  heart: 
Thou  art  my  wife  —  nay,  thou  art  yet  my  bride ! 
The  sacred  union  of  connubial  love  290 

Yet  unaccomplished;  his  mysterious  rites 
Delayed;   nor  has  our  hymeneal  torch 
Yet  lighted  up  his  last  most  grateful  sacrifice; 


SCENE  I]  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  413 

But  dashed  with  rain  from  eyes,  and  swaled  with  sighs, 

Burns  dim,  and  gUmmers  with  expiring  light. 

Is  this  dark  cell  a  temple  for  that  god? 

Or  this  vile  earth  an  altar  for  such  offerings? 

This  den  for  slaves,  this  dungeon  damped  with  woes; 

Is  this  our  marriage-bed?     Are  these  our  joys? 

Is  this  to  call  thee  mine?     Oh,  hold  my  heart!  300 

To  call  thee  mine?     Yes;  thus,  even  thus  to  call 

Thee  mine,  were  comfort,  joy,  extremest  ecstasy. 

But,  oh,  thou  art  not  mine,  not  even  in  misery! 

And  'tis  denied  to  me  to  be  so  blessed, 

As  to  be  wretched  with  thee. 

Aim.  No;   not  that 

The  extremest  malice  of  our  fate  can  hinder: 
That  still  is  left  us,  and  on  that  we'll  feed, 
As  on  the  leavings  of  calamity. 
There  we  will  feast,  and  smile  on  past  distress, 
And  hug,  in  scorn  of  it,  our  mutual  ruin.  310 

Osm.   Oh,  thou  dost  talk,  my  love,  as  one  resolved 
Because  not  knowing  danger.     But  look  forward; 
Think  on  to-morrow,  when  thou  shaft  be  torn 
From  these  weak,  strugghng,  unextended  arms; 
Think  how  my  heart  will  heave,  and  eyes  will  strain. 
To  grasp  and  reach  what  is  denied  my  hands; 
Think  how  the  blood  will  start,  and  tears  will  gush 
To  follow  thee,  my  separating  soul! 
Think  how  I  am  when  thou  shalt  wed  with  Garcia! 
Then  will  I  smear  these  walls  with  blood,  disfigure       320 
And  dash  my  face,  and  rive  my  clotted  hair, 
Break  on  the  flinty  floor  my  throbbing  breast, 
And  grovel  with  gashed  hands  to  scratch  a  grave, 
Stripping  my  nails,  to  tear  this  pavement  up. 
And  bury  me  alive. 

Aim.  Heart-breaking  horror! 

Osm.   Then  Garcia  shall  lie  panting  on  thy  bosom, 
Luxurious  revelling  amidst  thy  charms; 
And  thou  perforce  must  yield,  and  aid  his  transport. 


1 

414  THE   MOURNING   BRIDE  [act  hi 

Hell!  hell!  have  I  not  cause  to  rage  and  rave? 

What  are  all  racks,  and  wheels,  and  whips  to  this?       330 

Are  they  not  soothing  softness,  sinking  ease, 

And  wafting  air  to  this !     O  my  Almeria ! 

What  do  the  damned  endure,  but  to  despair, 

But  knowing  Heaven,  to  know  it  lost  for  ever? 

Aim.   Oh,  I  am  struck;   thy  words  are  bolts  of  ice, 
Which  shot  into  my  breast,  now  melt  and  chill  me. 
I  chatter,  shake,  and  faint,  with  thrilling  fears. 
No,  hold  me  not.  —  Oh,  let  us  not  support, 
But  sink  each  other,  deeper  yet,  down,  down, 
Where  levelled  low,  no  more  we'll  lift  our  eyes,  340 

But  prone,  and  dumb,  rot  the  firm  face  of  earth 
With  rivers  of  incessant  scalding  rain. 


Scene  II 

The  same 

OsMYN  and   Almeria  discovered.     Enter  Zara,  Perez, 

and  Selim 

Zara.   Somewhat  of  weight  to  me  requires  his  freedom. 
Dare  you  dispute  the  king's  command?     Behold 
The  royal  signet. 

Per.  I  obey;  yet  beg 

Your  majesty  one  moment  to  defer 
Your  entering  till  the  princess  is  returned 
From  visiting  the  noble  prisoner. 

Zara.  Ha! 

What  say'st  thou? 

Osni.  We  are  lost!  undone!  discovered! 

Retire,  my  life,  with  speed.  —  Alas,  we're  seen! 
Speak  of  compassion,  let  her  hear  you  speak 
Of  interceding  for  me  with  the  king!  10 

Say  somewhat  quickly  to  conceal  our  loves. 
If  possible  — 


SCENE  u]  THE    MOURNING   BRIDE  415 

Aim.  I  cannot  speak. 

Osm.  Let  me 

Conduct  you  forth,  as  not  perceiving  her, 
But  till  she's  gone,  then  bless  me  thus  again. 

Zara.   Trembling  and  weeping  as  he  leads  her  forth! 
Confusion  in  his  face,  and  grief  in  hers! 
'Tis  plain  I've  been  abused.  —  Death  and  destruction! 
How  shall  I  search  into  this  mystery? 
The  bluest  blast  of  pestilential  air 

Strike,  damp,  deaden  her  charms,  and  kill  his  eyes!        20 
Perdition  catch  'em  both,  and  ruin  part  'em! 

Osm.    [Aloud  to  Almeria  as  she  goes  out.]     This  charity 
to  one  unknown,  and  thus 
Distressed,  Heaven  will  repay;  all  thanks  are  poor. 

[Exit  Almeria. 

Zara.   [Aside.]     Damned,   damned  dissembler!  yet   I 
will  be  calm, 
Choke  in  my  rage,  and  know  the  utmost  depth 
Of  this  deceiver.  —  You  seem  much  surprised. 

Osm.   At  your  return  so  soon  and  unexpected! 

Zara.   And  so  unwished,  unwanted  too  it  seems. 
Confusion!  yet  I  will  contain  myself. 
You're  grown  a  favourite  since  last  we  parted;  30 

Perhaps  I'm  saucy  and  intruding  — 

Osm.  Madam! 

Zara.   I  did  not  know  the  princess'  favourite; 
Your  pardon,  sir  —  mistake  me  not;  you  think 
I'm  angry;  you're  deceived.     I  came  to  set 
You  free:  but  shall  return  much  better  pleased, 
To  find  you  have  an  interest  superior. 

Osm.   You  do  not  come  to  mock  my  miseries? 

Zara.   I  do. 

Osm.  I  could  at  this  time  spare  your  mirth. 

Zara.   I  know  thou  couldst:  but  I'm  not  often  pleased, 
And  will  indulge  it  now.     What  miseries?  40 

Who  would  not  be  thus  happily  confined. 
To  be  the  care  of  weeping  majesty? 


4l6  THE   MOURNING   BRIDE  [act  hi 

To  have  contending  queens,  at  dead  of  night, 
Forsake  their  down,  to  wake  with  wat'ry  eyes, 
And  watch  hke  tapers  o'er  your  hours  of  rest? 
O  curse !     I  cannot  hold  — 

Osm.  Come,  'tis  too  much. 

Zara.   Villain ! 

Osm.  How,  madam! 

Zara.  Thou  shalt  die. 

Osm.  .  I  thank  you. 

Zara.   Thou  liest!  for  now  I  know  for  whom  thou'dst 
live. 

Osm.   Then  you  may  know  for  whom  I'd  die. 

Zara.  Hell!  hell!  — 

Yet  I'll  be  calm.  —  Dark  and  unknown  betrayer!  50 

But  now  the  dawn  begins,  and  the  slow  hand 
Of  Fate  is  stretched  to  draw  the  veil,  and  leave 
Thee  bare,  the  naked  mark  of  public  view. 

Osm.   You  may  be  still  deceived,  'tis  in  my  power  — 

Zara.   Who  waits  there?     [To  the  Guard.]     As  you'll 
answer  it,  look  this  slave 
Attempt  no  means  to  make  liimself  away. 
I've  been  deceived.     The  public  safety  now 
Requires  he  should  be  more  confined,  and  none, 
No,  not  the  princess,  suffered  or  to  see 
Or  speak  with  him:  I'll  quit  you  to  the  king.  60 

Vile  and  ingrate !  too  late  thou  shalt  repent 
The  base  injustice  thou  hast  done  my  love: 
Yes,  thou  shalt  know,  spite  of  thy  past  distress, 

And  all  those  ills  which  thou  so  long  hast  mourned; 

Heaven  has  no  rage,  like  love  to  hatred  turned,    . 

Nor  hell  a  fury,  like  a  woman  scorned.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  THE  FOURTH 

Scene  I 

A  Room  of  State  in  the  Palace 

Enter  Zara  and  Selim 

Zara.   Thou  hast  already  racked  me  with  thy  stay, 
Therefore  require  me  not  to  ask  thee  twice; 
Reply  at  once  to  all.     What  is  concluded? 

Sel.   Your  accusation  highly  has  incensed 
The  king,  and  were  alone  enough  to  urge 
The  fate  of  Osmyn;  but  to  that,  fresh  news 
Is  since  arrived  of  more  revolted  troops. 
'Tis  certain  Heli  too  is  fled,  and  with  him 
(Which  breeds  amazement  and  distraction)  some 
Who  bore  high  offices  of  weight  and  trust,  lo 

Both  in  the  state  and  army.     This  confirms 
The  king,  in  full  belief  of  all  you  told  him, 
Concerning  Osmyn  and  his  correspondence 
With  them  who  first  began  the  mutiny. 
Wherefore  a  warrant  for  his  death  is  signed. 
And  order  given  for  public  execution. 

Zara.   Ha!  haste  thee!  fly!  prevent  his  fate  and  mine; 
Find  out  the  king,  tell  him  I  have  of  weight 
More  than  his  crown  to  impart  ere  Osmyn  die. 

Scl.   It  needs  not,  for  the  king  will  straight  be  here;  20 
And  as  to  your  revenge,  not  his  own  interest, 
Pretend  to  sacrifice  the  life  of  Osmyn. 

Zara.   What  shall  I  say?     Invent,  contrive,  advise, 
Somewhat  to  blind  the  king,  and  save  his  life 

CONGREVE  —  27  417 


4l8  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  [act  iv 

In  whom  I  live.     Spite  of  my  rage  and  pride, 

I  am  a  woman,  and  a  lover  still. 

Oh,  'tis  more  grief  but  to  suppose  his  death. 

Than  still  to  meet  the  rigour  of  his  scorn. 

From  my  despair  my  anger  had  its  source; 

When  he  is  dead  I  must  despair  for  ever.  3c 

For  ever!  that's  despair  —  it  was  distrust 

Before;  distrust  will  ever  be  in  love. 

And  anger  in  distrust,  both  short-lived  pains. 

But  in  despair,  and  ever-during  death, 

No  term,  no  bound,  but  infinite  of  woe. 

0  torment,  but  to  think!  what  then  to  bear! 
Not  to  be  borne.  —  Devise  the  means  to  shun  it, 
Quick,  or  by  Heaven  this  dagger  drinks  thy  blood! 

Sel.   My  hfe  is  yours,  nor  wish  I  to  preserve  it, 
But  to  serve  you.     I  have  already  thought.  40 

Zara.   Forgive  my  rage;  I  know  thy  love  and  truth. 
But  say,  what's  to  be  done?  or  when,  or  how, 
ShaU  I  prevent,  or  stop  the  approaching  danger? 

Sel.   You  must  still  seem  more  resolute  and  fixed 
On  Osmyn's  death;  too  quick  a  change  of  mercy 
Might  breed  suspicion  of  the  cause.     Advise 
That  execution  may  be  done  in  private. 

Zara.   On  what  pretence? 

Sel.  Your  own  request's  enough. 

However,  for  a  colour,  tell  him,  you 
Have  cause  to  fear  his  guards  may  be  corrupted,  50 

And  some  of  them  bought  off  to  Osmyn's  interest. 
Who,  at  the  place  of  execution,  will 
Attempt  to  force  his  way  for  an  escape. 
The  state  of  things  will  countenance  all  suspicions. 
Then  offer  to  the  king  to  have  him  strangled 
In  secret  by  your  mutes,  and  get  an  order, 
That  none  but  mutes  may  have  admittance  to  him. 

1  can  no  more,  the  king  is  here.     Obtain 

This  grant  —  and  I'll  acquaint  you  with  the  rest. 


SCENE  I]  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  419 

Enter  Manuel,  Gonsalez,  Perez,  and  Guards 

Man.   Bear  to  the  dungeon  those  rebellious  slaves,     60 
The  ignoble  curs,  that  yelp  to  fill  the  cry," 
And  spend  their  mouths  in  barking  tyranny. 
But  for  their  leaders,  Sancho  and  Ramirez, 
Let  'em  be  led  away  to  present  death.  — 
Perez,  see  it  performed. 

Gon.  Might  I  presume. 

Their  execution  better  were  deferred. 
Till  Osmyn  die.     Meantime  we  may  learn  more 
Of  this  conspiracy. 

Man.  Then  be  it  so. 

Stay,  soldier;   they  shall  suffer  with  the  Moor. 
Are  none  returned  of  those  who  followed  Heli?  70 

Gon.   None,  sir.     Some  papers  have  been  since  dis- 
covered 
In  Roderigo's  house,  who  fled  with  him. 
Which  seem  to  intimate,  as  if  Alphonso 

Were  still  alive,  and  arming  in  Valentia: 

Which  wears  indeed  this  colour  of  a  truth. 

They  who  are  fled  have  that  way  bent  their  course. 

Of  the  same  nature  divers  notes  have  been 

Dispersed  to  amuse  the  people;  whereupon 

Some  ready  of  belief  have  raised  this  rumour; 

That  being  saved  upon  the  coast  of  Afric,  80 

He  there  disclosed  himself  to  Abucacim, 

And  by  a  secret  compact  made  with  him. 

Opened  and  urged  the  way  to  this  invasion ; 

While  he  himself,  returning  to  Valentia 

In  private,  undertook  to  raise  this  tumult. 

Zara.  [Aside  to  Selim.]   Ha!   hear'st  thou  that?      Is 
Osmyn  then  Alphonso? 

O  Heaven!  a  thousand  things  occur  at  once 

To  my  remembrance  now,  that  make  it  plain. 

Oh,  certain  death  for  him,  as  sure  despair 

For  me,  if  it  be  known!  —  if  not,  what  hope  90 


420  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  [act  iv 

Have  I?     Yet  'twere  the  lowest  baseness,  now 
To  yield  him  up.  —  No,  I  will  still  conceal  him, 
And  try  the  force  of  yet  more  obligations. 

Gon.    'Tis  not  impossible.     Yet,  it  may  be 
That  some  impostor  has  usurped  his  name. 
Your  beauteous  captive  Zara  can  inform, 
If  such  a  one,  so  scaping,  was  received 
At  any  time,  in  Abucacim's  court. 

Man.   Pardon,  fair  excellence,  this  long  neglect: 
An  unforeseen,  unwelcome  hour  of  business,  loo 

Has  thrust  between  us  and  our  while  of  love; 
But  wearing  now  apace  with  ebbing  sand, 
Will  quickly  waste,  and  give  again  the  day. 

Zara.   You're  too  secure;  the  danger  is  more  imminent 
Than  your  high  courage  suffers  you  to  see; 
While  Osmyn  lives,  you  are  not  safe. 

Man.  His  doom 

Is  passed;  if  you  revoke  it  not,  he  dies. 

Zara.    'Tis  well.     By  what  I  heard  upon  your  entrance, 
I  find  I  can  unfold  what  yet  concerns 
You  more.     One  who  did  call  himself  Alphonso  no 

Was  cast  upon  my  coast,  as  is  reported. 
And  oft  had  private  conference  with  the  king; 
To  what  effect  I  knew  not  then :  but  he, 
Alphonso,  secretly  departed,  just 
About  the  time  our  arms  embarked  for  Spain. 
What  I  know  more  is,  that  a  triple  league 
Of  strictest  friendship  was  professed  between 
Alphonso,  Heli,  and  the  traitor  Osmyn. 

Man.    Public  report  is  ratified  in  this. 

Zara.   And   Osmyn's   death    required   of   strong    ne- 
cessity. 1 20 

Man.    Give  order  straight  that  all  the  prisoners  die. 

Zara.   Forbear  a  moment;   somewhat  more  I  have 
Worthy  your  private  ear,  and  this  your  minister. 

Man.   Let  all  except  Gonsalez  leave  the  room. 

[Exeunt  Perez  and  Guards. 


SCENE  I]  THE   MOURNIiNG    BRIDE  42 1 

Zara.   I  am  your  captive,  and  you've  used  me  nobly; 
And  in  return  of  that,  though  otherwise 
Your  enemy,  I  have  discovered  Osmyn 
His  private  practice  "  and  conspiracy 
Against  your  state:  and  fully  to  discharge 
Myself  of  what  I've  undertaken,  now  130 

I  think  it  fit  to  tell  you,  that  your  guards 
Are  tainted:  some  among  'em  have  resolved 
To  rescue  Osmyn  at  the  place  of  death. 

Man.   Is  treason  then  so  near  us  as  our  guards! 

Zara.   Most  certain;   though  my  knowledge  is  not  yet 
So  ripe,  to  point  at  the  particular  men. 

Man.   What's  to  be  done? 

Zara.  That  too  I  will  advise. 

I  have  remaining  in  my  train  some  mutes, 
A  present  once  from  the  sultana  queen, 
In  the  grand  signior's  court.     These  from  infancy         140 
Are  practised  in  the  trade  of  death;  and  shall 
(As  there  the  custom  is)  in  private  strangle  Osmyn. 

Gon.   My  lord,  the  queen  advises  well. 

Man.   What  offering  or  what  recompense  remains 
In  me,  that  can  be  worthy  so  great  services? 
To  cast  beneath  your  feet  the  crown  you've  saved, 
Though  on  the  head  that  wears  it,  were  too  little. 

Zara.   Of  that  hereafter;  but,  meantime,  'tis  fit 
You  give  strict  charge,  that  none  may  be  admitted 
To  see  the  prisoner,  but  such  mutes  as  I  iso 

Shall  send. 

Man.  Who  waits  there? 

Re-enter  Perez 

On  your  life  take  heed, 
That  only  Zara's  mutes,  or  such  who  bring 
Her  warrant,  have  admittance  to  the  Moor. 

Zara.   They  and  no  other,  not  the  princess'  self. 

Per.   Your  majesty  shall  be  obeyed. 


422  THE   MOQRNING   BRIDE  [act  iv 

Man.  Retire. 

[Exit  Perez. 

Gon.    [Aside.]  That  interdiction  so  particular, 
Pronounced  with  vehemence  against  the  princess, 
Should  have  more  meaning  than  appears  barefaced: 
The  king  is  blinded  by  his  love,  and  heeds 
It  not.  —  [To  Zara.]     Your  majesty  sure  might  have 
spared  i6o 

That  last  restraint;  you  hardly  can  suspect 
The  princess  is  confederate  with  the  Moor. 

Zara.   I've  heard  her  charity  did  once  extend 
So  far,  to  visit  him,  at  his  request. 

Gon.   Ha ! 

Man.         How?  she  visit  Osmyn !     What,  my  daughter? 

Sel.    [Aside  to  Zara.]     Madam,  take  heed;  or  you  have 
ruined  all.  — 

Zara.   And  after  did  solicit  you  on  his 
Behalf. 

Man.   Never.     You  have  been  misinformed. 

Zara.   Indeed?     Then  'twas  a  whisper  spread  by  some 
Who  wished  it  so;  a  common  art  in  courts.  170 

I  will  retire,  and  instantly  prepare 
Instruction  for  my  ministers  of  death. 

[Exeunt  Zara  and  Selim. 

Gon.    [Aside.]  There's  somewhat  yet  of  mystery  in  this; 
Her  words  and  actions  are  obscure  and  double, 
Sometimes  concur,  and  sometimes  disagree; 
I  like  it  not. 

Man.  What  dost  thou  think,  Gonsalez; 

Are  we  not  much  indebted  to  this  fair  one? 

Gon.   I  am  a  little  slow  of  credit,  sir. 
In  the  sincerity  of  women's  actions. 
Methinks  this  lady's  hatred  to  the  Moor  180 

Disquiets  her  too  much;  which  makes  it  seem 
As  if  she'd  rather  that  she  did  not  hate  him. 
I  wish  her  mutes  are  meant  to  be  employed 
As  she  pretends  —  I  doubt  it  now  —  your  guards 


SCENE  1]  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  423 

Corrupted!  how?  by  whom?  who  told  her  so? 

I'th'  evening  Osmyn  was  to  die;   at  midnight 

She  begged  the  royal  signet  to  release  him; 

I'th'  morning  he  must  die  again;   ere  noon 

Her  mutes  alone  must  strangle  him,  or  he'll 

Escape.     This  put  together  suits  not  well.  igo 

Man.   Yet,  that  there's  truth  in  what  she  has    dis- 
covered, 
Is  manifest  from  every  circumstance. 
This  tumult,  and  the  lords  who  fled  with  Heli, 
Are  confirmation:  —  that  Alphonso  lives. 
Agrees  expressly  too  with  her  report. 

Gon.   I  grant  it,  sir;  —  and  doubt  not,  but  in  rage 
Of  jealousy,  she  has  discovered  what 
She  now  repents.     It  may  be  I'm  deceived. 
But  why  that  needless  caution  of  the  princess? 
What  if  she  had  seen  Osmyn?    though  'twere  strange.  200 
But  if  she  had,  what  was't  to  her?  unless 
She  feared  her  stronger  charms  might  cause  the  Moor's 
Affection  to  revolt. 

Man.  I  thank  thee,  friend. 

There's  reason  in  thy  doubt,  and  I  am  warned. 
But  think'st  thou  that  my  daughter  saw  this  Moor? 

Gon.   If  Osmyn  be,  as  Zara  has  related, 
Alphonso's  friend;   'tis  not  impossible, 
But  she  might  wish  on  his  account  to  see  him. 

Man.    Say'st  thou?  by  Heaven   thou  hast  roused  a 
thought, 
That  Hke  a  sudden  earthquake  shakes  my  frame:  210 

Confusion !  then  my  daughter's  an  accompUce, 
And  plots  in  private  with  this  hellish  Moor. 

Gon.   That  were  too  hard  a  thought  —  but  see  she  comes. 
'Twere  not  amiss  to  question  her  a  little, 
And  try,  howe'er,  if  I've  divined  aright. 
If  what  I  fear  be  true,  she'll  be  concerned 
For  Osmyn's  death,  as  he's  Alphonso's  friend. 
Urge  that,  to  try  if  she'll  solicit  for  him. 


424  THE    MOURNING    BRIDE  [act  iv 

Enter  Almeria  and  Leonora 

Man.   Your  coming  has  prevented  me,  Almeria; 
I  had  determined  to  have  sent  for  you.  220 

Let  your  attendant  be  dismissed;  I  have 
To  talk  with  you.     [Exit  Leonora.]     Come  near;    why 

dost  thou  shake? 
What  mean  those  swollen  and  red-flecked  eyes,  that  look 
As  they  had  wept  in  blood,  and  worn  the  night 
In  waking  anguish?     Why  this,  on  the  day 
Which  was  designed  to  celebrate  thy  nuptials; 
But  that  the  beams  of  light  are  to  be  stained 
With  reeking  gore,  from  traitors  on  the  rack? 
Wherefore  I  have  deferred  the  marriage-rites; 
Nor  shall  the  guilty  horrors  of  this  day  230 

Profane  that  jubilee. 

Aim.  All  days  to  me 

Henceforth  are  equal;   this  the  day  of  death. 
To-morrow,  and  the  next,  and  each  that  follows, 
With  undistinguished  roll,  and  but  prolong 
One  hated  line  of  more  extended  woe. 

Man.   Whence  is  thy  grief?  give  me  to  know  the  cause. 
And  look  thou  answer  me  with  truth;   for  know, 
I  am  not  unacquainted  with  thy  falsehood. 
Why  art  thou  mute?  base  and  degenerate  maid! 

Gon.   Dear  madam,  speak,  or  you'll  incense  the  king.  240 

Aim.    What  is't  to  speak?  or  wherefore  should  I  speak? 
What  mean  these  tears,  but  grief  unutterable! 

Man.   They  are  the  dumb  confessions  of  thy  mind. 
They  mean  thy  guilt;  and  say  thou  wert  confederate 
With  damned  conspirators  to  take  my  life. 
O  impious  parricide!  now  canst  thou  speak? 

Aim.   O  earth,  behold,  I  kneel  upon  thy  bosom! 
And  bend  my  flowing  eyes,  to  stream  upoii 
Thy  face,  imploring  thee  that  thou  wilt  yield; 
Open  thy  bowels  of  compassion,  take  250 

Into  thy  womb  the  last  and  most  forlorn 


SCENE  I]  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  425 

Of  all  thy  race.     Hear  me,  thou  common  parent! 
I  have  no  parent  else  —  be  thou  a  mother, 
And  step  between  me  and  the  curse  of  him 
Who  was  —  who  was,  but  is  no  more  a  father, 
But  brands  my  innocence  with  horrid  crimes; 
And  for  the  tender  names  of  child  and  daughter. 
Now  calls  me  murderer  and  parricide. 

Man.   Rise,  I  command  thee  rise  —  and  if  thou  wouldst 
Acquit  thyself  of  those  detested  names,  260 

Swear  thou  hast  never  seen  that  foreign  dog, 
Now  doomed  to  die,  that  most  accursed  Osmyn. 

Aim.   Never,  but  as  with  innocence  I  might, 
And  free  of  all  bad  purposes.     So  Heaven's 
My  witness. 

Mati.  Vile  equivocating  wretch! 

With  innocence!     O  patience!  hear!  she  owns  it! 
Confesses  it!  by  Heaven  I'll  have  him  racked! 
Torn,  mangled,  flayed,  impaled!    all  pains  and  tortures 
That  wit  of  man  and  dire  revenge  can  think. 
Shall  he  accumulated  underbear.  270 

Aim.   Oh,  I  am  lost!  —  There  fate  begins  to  wound. 

Man.    Hear  me,  then;    if  thou  canst,  reply:    know, 
traitress, 
I'm  not  to  learn  that  cursed  Alphonso  lives; 
Nor  am  I  ignorant  what  Osmyn  is. 

Aim.   Then  all  is  ended,  and  we  both  must  die. 
Since  thou'rt  revealed,  alone  thou  shalt  not  die. 
And  yet  alone  would  I  have  died,  Heaven  knows, - 
Repeated  deaths,  rather  than  have  revealed  thee. 
Yes,  all  my  father's  wounding  wrath,  though  each 
Reproach  cuts  deeper  than  the  keenest  sw'ord,  280 

And  cleaves  my  heart;  I  would  have  borne  it  all, 
Nay,  all  the  pains  that  are  prepared  for  thee: 
To  the  remorseless  rack  I  would  have  given 
This  weak  and  tender  flesh,  to  have  been  bruised 
And  torn,  rather  than  have  revealed  thy  being. 

Ma?i.   Hell,  hell!  do  I  hear  this,  and  yet  endure! 


426  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  [act  iv 

What,  darest  thou  to  my  face  avow  thy  guilt? 
Hence,  ere  I  curse!  —  Fly  my  just  rage  with  speed; 
Lest  I  forget  us  both,  and  spurn  thee  from  me. 

yllm.   And  yet  a  father!   think  I  am  your  child.         2qo 
Turn  not  your  eyes  away  [Kneels.]  —  look  on  me  kneel- 
ing; 
Now  curse  me  if  you  can,  now  spurn  me  off. 
Did  ever  father  curse  his  kneeling  child? 
Never:  for  always  blessings  crown  that  posture. 
Nature  inclines,  and  half-way  meets  that  duty, 
Stooping  to  raise  from  earth  the  fiUal  reverence; 
For  bended  knees  returning  folding  arms. 
With  prayers,  and  blessings,  and  paternal  love. 
Oh,  hear  me  then,  thus  crawHng  on  the  earth  — 

Man.   Be  thou  advised,  and  let  me  go,  while  yet       300 
The  hght  impression  thou  hast  made  remains. 

Aim.   No,  never  will  I  rise,  nor  loose  this  hold. 
Till  you  are  moved,  and  grant  that  he  may  live. 

Man.   Ha!    who  may  live?    take   heed,   no   more  of 
that; 
For  on  my  soul  he  dies,  though  thou  and  I, 
And  all  should  follow  to  partake  his  doom. 
Away,  off,  let  me  go.  —  Call  her  attendants. 

[Leonora  re-enters  with  Attendants. 

Aim.    Drag  me!  harrow  the  earth  with  my  bare  bosom! 
I'll  not  let  go  till  you  have  spared  my  husband. 

Man.   Ha!    what    say'st    thou?    husband!    husband! 
damnation!  310 

What  husband!  which?  who? 

Ahn.  He,  he  is  my  husband. 

Man.    Poison  and  daggers!  who? 

Aim.  Oh!  [Faints. 

Gon.  Help,  support  her. 

Aim.   Let  me  go,  let  me  fall,  sink  deep  —  I'll  dig, 
I'll  dig  a  grave,  and  tear  up  death;  I  will; 
I'll  scrape  till  I  collect  his  rotten  bones. 
And  clothe  their  nakedness  with  my  own  flesh: 


SCENE  I]  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  427 

Yes,  I  will  strip  off  life,  and  we  will  change: 

T  will  be  death;  then  though  you  kill  my  husband, 

He  shall  be  mine,  still  and  for  ever  mine. 

Man.  What  husband?  who?  whom  dost  thou  mean?  320 

Gon.   She  raves! 

Aim.   Oh,  that  I  did!     Osmyn,  he  is  my  husband. 

Man.   Osmyn? 

Aim.   Not  Osmyn,  but  Alphonso  is  my  dear 
And  wedded  husband.  —  Heaven,  and  air,  and  seas, 
Ye  winds  and  waves,  I  call  ye  all  to  witness! " 

Man.   Wilder  than  winds  or  waves  thyself  dost  rave. 
Should  I  hear  more,  I  too  should  catch  thy  madness. 
Yet  somewhat  she  must  mean  of  dire  import, 
Which  I'll  not  hear,  till  I  am  more  at  peace.  330 

Watch  her  returning  sense,  and  bring  me  word; 
And  look  that  she  attempt  not  on  her  life.  [Exit. 

Aim.   Oh,  stay,  yet  stay!  hear  me,  I  am  not  mad. 
I  would  to  Heaven  I  were !  —  He's  gone. 

Con.  Have  comfort. 

Aim.    Cursed  be  that  tongue  that  bids  me  be  of  com- 
fort! 
Cursed  my  own  tongue,  that  could  not  move  his  pity! 
Cursed  these  weak  hands,  that  could  not  hold  him  here! 
For  he  has  gone  to  doom  Alphonso's  death. 

Gon.   Your  too  excessive  grief  works  on  your  fancy, 
And  deludes  your  sense.     Alphonso,  if  living,  ^40 

Is  far  from  hence,  beyond  your  father's  power. 

Aim.   Hence,  thou  detested,  ill-timed  flatterer! 
Source  of  my  woes!  thou  and  thy  race  be  cursed! 
But  doubly  thou,  who  could  alone  have  policy 
And  fraud,  to  find  the  fatal  secret  out, 
And  know  that  Osmyn  was  Alphonso ! 

Gon.  Ha! 

Aim.   Why  dost  thou  start?  what  dost  thou  sec  or 
hear? 
Was  it  the  doleful  bell,  tolling  for  death? 
Or  dying  gi-oans  from  my  Alphonso's  breast? 


428  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  [act  iv 

See,  see,  look  yonder!  where  a  grizzled,  pale,  350 

And  ghastly  head  glares  by,  all  smeared  with  blood, 
Gasping  as  it  would  speak;  and  after,  see! 
Behold  a  damp,  dead  hand  has  dropped  a  dagger; 
I'll  catch  it  —  Hark!  a  voice  cries  murder!  ah! 
My  father's  voice!  hollow  it  sounds,  and  calls 
Me  from  the  tomb  —  I'll  follow  it;  for  there 
I  shall  again  behold  my  dear  Alphonso. 

[Exeunt  Almeria,  Leonora,  and  Attendants. 
Gon.    She's  greatly  grieved;   nor  am  I  less  surprised. 
Osmyn,  Alphonso!    no;  she  over-rates 
My  policy:  I  ne'er  suspected  it:  360 

Nor  now  had  known  it,  but  from  her  mistake. 
Her  husband  too!  ha!   where  is  Garcia  then? 
And  where  the  crown  that  should  descend  on  him. 
To  grace  the  line  of  my  posterity? 
Hold,  let  me  think  —  if  I  should  tell  the  king  — 
Things  come  to  this  extremity;  his  daughter 
Wedded  already  —  what  if  he  should  yield? 
Knowing  no  remedy  for  what  is  past; 
And  urged  by  nature  pleading  for  his  child. 
With  which  he  seems  to  be  already  shaken.  370 

And  though  I  know  he  hates  beyond  the  grave 
Anselmo's  race;  yet  if  —  that  if  concludes  me. 
To  doubt,  when  I  may  be  assured,  is  folly. 
But  how  prevent  the  captive  queen,  who  means 
To  set  him  free?     Aye,  now  'tis  plain;  Oh,  well 
Invented  tale!     He  was  Alphonso's  friend. 
This  subtle  woman  will  amuse  "  the  king 
If  I  delay.  —  'Twill  do  —  or  better  so.  — 
One  to  my  wish.  " 

Enter  Alonzo 

Alonzo,  thou  art  welcome, 
Alon.   The  king  expects  your  lordship. 
Gon.  'Tis  no  matter.  380 

I'm  not  i'  the  way"  at  present,  good  Alonzo. 


SCENE  I]  THE    MOURNING    BRIDE  429 

Alon.   If't  please  your  lordship,  I'll  return,  and  say 
I  have  not  seen  you. 

Gon.  Do,  my  best  Alonzo. 

Yet  stay,  I  would  —  but  go;  anon  will  serve  — 
Yet  I  have  that  requires  thy  speedy  help. 
I  think  thou  wouldst  not  stop  to  do  me  service. 

Aloft.   I  am  your  creature. 

Gon.  Say  thou  art  my  friend. 

I've  seen  thy  sword  do  noble  execution. 

Alon.   All  that  it  can  your  lordship  shall  command. 

Gon.   Thanks!  and  I  take  thee  at  thy  word;    thou'st 
seen  390 

Among  the  followers  of  the  captive  queen. 
Dumb  men,  who  make  their  meaning  known  by  signs? 

Alon.   I  have,  my  lord. 

Gon.  Couldst  thou  procure  with  speed 

And  privacy,  the  wearing  garb  of  one 
Of  those,  though  purchased  by  his  death,  I'd  give 
Thee  such  reward  as  should  exceed  thy  wish. 

Alo)i.    Conclude  it  done.     Where   shall  I  wait  your 
lordship? 

Gon.   At  my  apartment.     Use  thy  utmost  diligence; 
And  say  I've  not  been  seen  —  haste,  good  Alonzo. 

[Exit  Alonzo. 
So,  this  can  hardly  fail.     Alphonso  slain,  400 

The  greatest  obstacle  is  then  removed. 

Ahneria  widowed,  yet  again  may  wed; 

And  I  yet  fix  the  crown  on  Garcia' s  head.  {Exit. 


ACT  THE   FIFTH 

Scene  I 

A  Room  of  State  in  the  Palace 

Enter  Manuel,  Perez,  and  Alonzo 

Man.   Not  to  be  found?   in  an  ill  hour  he's  absent. 
None,  say  you,  none?    what,  not  the  favourite  eunuch? 
Nor  she  herself,  nor  any  of  her  mutes, 
Have  yet  required  admittance? 

Per.  None,  my  lord. 

Man.   Is  Osmyn  so  disposed  as  I  commanded? 

Per.    Fast  bound  in  double  chains,  and  at  full  length, 
He  lies  supine  on  earth;  with  as  much  ease 
She  might  remove  the  centre  of  this  earth, 
As  loose  the  rivets  of  his  bonds. 

Man.  'Tis  well. 

[A  Mute  appears,  and  seeing  the  King  retires. 
Ha!  stop,  and  seize  that  mute;  Alonzo,  follow  him.      lo 
Entering  he  met  my  eyes,  and  started  back, 
Frighted,  and  fumbling  one  hand  in  his  bosom, 
As  to  conceal  the  importance  of  his  errand. 

[Alonzo  follows  him,  and  returns  with  a  paper. 

Alon.   0  bloody  proof  of  obstinate  fideUty! 

Man.   What  dost  thou  mean? 

Alon.  Soon  as  I  seized  the  man, 

He  snatched  from  out  his  bosom  this  —  and  strove 
With  rash  and  greedy  haste,  at  once  to  cram 
The  morsel  down  his  throat.     I  catched  his  arm, 
And  hardly  wrenched  his  hand  to  wring  it  from  him; 
Which  done,  he  drew  his  poniard  from  his  side,  20 

And  on  the  instant  plunged  it  in  his  breast. 

430 


SCENE  1]  THE   MOURNING   BRIDE  43 1 

Man.   Remove  the  body  thence  ere  Zara  see  it. 

.'1/c;;;.    [Aside.]     I'll  be  so  bold  to  borrow  his  attire; 
'Twill  quit  me  of  my  promise  to  Gonsalez. 

[E.xit  Alonzo,  bearing  oJJ  the  dead  Mute. 

Per.    [Aside.]     Whate'er  it  is,  the  king's  complexion 
turns. 

Man.    [Having  read  the  letter.]    How's  this?  my  mortal 
foe  beneath  my  roof? 
Oh,  give  me  patience,  all  ye  powers!    no,  rather 
Give  me  new  rage,  implacable  revenge, 
And  trebled  fury.  —  Ha!  who's  there? 

Per.  My  lord! 

Man.   Hence,  slave!    how  darest  thou  bide,  to  watch 
and  pry  30 

Into  how  poor  a  thing  a  king  descends? 
How  like  thyself,  when  passion  treads  him  down! 
Ha!  stir  not,  on  thy  life!   for  thou  wert  fixed 
And  planted  here  to  see  me  gorge  this  bait. 
And  lash  against  the  hook.  —  By  Heaven,  you're  all 
Rank  traitors!  thou  art  with  the  rest  combined; 
Thou  knew'st  that  Osmyn  was  Alphonso,  knew'st 
My  daughter  privately  with  him  conferred; 
And  wert  the  spy  and  pander  to  their  meeting. 

Per.   By  all  that's  holy,  I'm  amazed  — 

Man.  Thou  liest.  40 

Thou  art  accomplice  too  with  Zara:  here 
Where  she  sets  down  —  [Reading.]  —  "Still  will  I  set  thee 

free"  — 
That  somewhere  is  repeated  —  "I  have  power 
O'er  them  that  are  thy  guards."  —  Mark  that,  thou  traitor! 

Per.    It  was  your  majesty's  command,  I  should 
Obey  her  order  — 

Man.    [Reading.]     "And  still  will  I  set 
Thee  free,  Alphonso."  —  Hell!   cursed,  cursed  Alphonso! 
False  and  perfidious  Zara!     Strumpet  daughter! 
Away,  begone,  thou  feeble  boy,  fond  love! 
All  nature,  softness,  pity  and  compassion!  50 


432  THE    MOURNING   BRIDE  [act  v 

This  hour  I  throw  ye  off,  and  entertain 

Fell  hate  within  my  breast,  revenge  and  gall. 

By  Heaven,  I'll  meet,  and  counterwork  this  treachery! 

Hark  thee,  villain,  traitor  —  answer  me,  slave! 

Per.   My  service  has  not  merited  those  titles. 

Man.   Barest   thou   reply?   take   that  —  thy   service? 
thine!  [Strikes  him. 

What's  thy  whole  life,  thy  soul,  thy  all,  to  my 
One  moment's  ease?     Hear  my  command;  and  look 
That  thou  obey,  or  horror  on  thy  head. 
Drench  me  thy  dagger  in  Alphonso's  heart:  60 

Why  dost  thou  start?     Resolve,  or  — 

Per.  Sir,  I  will. 

Man.    'Tis  well  —  that  when  she  comes  to  set  him  free, 
His  teeth  may  grin,  and  mock  at  her  remorse. 

[Perez  going. 
Stay  thee  —  I've  farther  thought  —  I'll  add  to  this. 
And  give  her  eyes  yet  greater  disappointment: 
When  thou  hast  ended  him,  bring  me  his  robe; 
And  let  the  cell  where  she'll  expect  to  see  him 
Be  darkened  so  as  to  amuse  the  sight. 
I'll  be  conducted  thither  —  mark  me  well  — 
There  with  his  turbant,  and  his  robe  arrayed,  70 

And  laid  along  as  he  now  lies  supine, 
I  shall  convict  her  to  her  face  of  falsehood. 
When  for  Alphonso's  she  shall  take  my  hand. 
And  breathe  her  sighs  upon  my  lips  for  his, 
Sudden  I'll  start,  and  dash  her  with  her  guilt. 
But  see  she  comes;  I'll  shun  the  encounter;  thou. 
Follow  me,  and  give  heed  to  my  direction.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Zara  and  Selim 

Zara.   The  mute  not  yet  returned !  —  ha,  'twas  the  king! 
The  king  that  parted  hence!  frowning  he  went; 
His  eyes  like  meteors  rolled,  then  darted  down  80 

Their  red  and  angry  beams;  as  if  his  sight 


SCENE  I]  THE    MOURNING    BRIDE  433 

Would,  like  the  raging  dog-star,  scorch  the  earth," 
And  kindle  ruin  in  its  course.     Dost  think 
He  saw  me? 

Sel.  YeS':  but  then,  as  if  he. thought 

His  eyes  had  erred,  he  hastily  recalled 
The  imperfect  look,  and  sternly  turned  away. 

Zara.   Shun  me  when  seen !  I  fear  thou  hast  undone  me. 
Thy  shallow  artifice  begets  suspicion, 
And  like  a  cobweb  veil,  but  thinly  shades 
The  face  of  thy  design,  alone  disguising  90 

What  should  have  ne'er  been  seen;  imperfect  mischief! 
Thou,  like  the  adder,  venomous  and  deaf, 
Hast  stung  the  traveller;  and  after  hear'st 
Not  his  pursuing  voice;  even  where  thou  think'st 
To  hide,  the  rustling  leaves  and  bended  grass 
Confess,  and  point  the  path  which  thou  hast  crept. 

0  fate  of  fools!  officious  in  contriving; 
In  executing  puzzled,  lame  and  lost. 

Sel.   Avert  it,  Heaven,  that  you  should  ever  suffer 
For  my  defect!  or  that  the  means  which  I  100 

Devised  to  serve  should  ruin  your  design! 
Prescience  is  Heaven's  alone,  not  given  to  man. 
If  I  have  failed  in  what,  as  being  man, 

1  needs  must  fail;  impute  not  as  a  crime 
My  nature's  want,  but  punish  nature  in  me: 
I  plead  not  for  a  pardon,  and  to  Uve, 

But  to  be  punished  and  forgiven.     Here,  strike! 
I  bare  my  breast  to  meet  your  just  revenge. 

Zara.    I  have  not  leisure  now  to  take  so  poor 
A  forfeit  as  thy  Hfe:  somewhat  of  high  no 

And  more  important  fate  requires  my  thought. 
When  I've  concluded  on  myself,  if  I 
Think  fit,  I'll  leave  thee  my  command  to  die. 
Regard  me  well;  and  dare  not  to  reply 
To  what  I  give  in  charge;  for  I'm  resolved. 
Give  order  that  the  two  remaining  mutes 
Attend  me  instantly,  with  each  a  bowl 

CONGREVE — 28 


434  THE    MOURNING    BRIDE  [act  v 

Of  such  ingredients  mixed,  as  will  with  speed 

Benumb  the  Uving  faculties,  and  give 

Most  easy  and  inevitable  death.  120 

Yes,  Osmyn,  yes;  be  Osmyn  or  Alphonso, 

I'll  give  thee  freedom,  if  thou  darest  be  free: 

Such  liberty  as  I  embrace  myself, 

Thou  shalt  partake.     Since  fates  no  more  afford, 

I  can  but  die  with  thee  to  keep  my  word. 


Scene  II 

The  Inside  of  the  Prison 

Enter  Gonsalez  alone,  disguised  like  a  Mute,  with  a 

dagger 

Gon.   Nor  sentinel,  nor  guard!  the  doors  unbarred! 
And  all  as  still  as  at  the  noon  of  night ! 
Sure  death  already  has  been  busy  here. 
There  Hes  my  way,  that  door  too  is  unlocked.     [Looks  in. 
Ha!  sure  he  sleeps  —  all's  dark  within,  save  what 
A  lamp,  that  feebly  lifts  a  sickly  flame. 
By  fits  reveals.  —  His  face  seems  turned,  to  favour 
The  attempt.     I'll  steal,  and  do  it  unperceived. 
What  noise!     Somebody  coming?  'st,  Alonzo? 
Nobody?     Sure  he'll  wait  without  —  I  would  10 

'Twere  done  —  I'll  crawl,  and  sting  him  to  the  heart: 
Then  cast  my  skin,  and  leave  it  there  to  answer  it. 

[Goes  in. 
Enter  Garcia  and  Alonzo 

Gar.   Where?  where,  Alonzo?  where's  my  father?  where 
The  king!     Confusion!  all  is  on  the  rout! 
All's  lost,  all  ruined  by  surprise  and  treachery. 
Where,  where  is  he?  why  dost  thou  thus  mislead  me? 

Alon.   My  lord,  he  entered  but  a  moment  since, 


SCENE  II]  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  435 

And  could  not  pass  me  unperceived.  —  What  ho ! 
My  lord,  my  lord!  what,  ho!  my  lord  Gonsalez! 

Re-enter  Gonsalez,  bloody 

Gon.   Perdition  choke  your  clamours!  —  whence  this 
rudeness?  20 

Garcia! 

Gar.      Perdition,  slavery  and  death,     . 
Are  entering  now  our  doors.     Where  is  the  king? 
What  means  this  blood?  and  why  this  face  of  horror? 

Gon.   No  matter  —  give  me  first  to  know  the  cause 
Of  these  your  rash  and  ill-timed  exclamations. 

Gar.   The  eastern  gate  is  to  the  foe  betrayed, 
Who  but  for  heaps  of  slain  that  choke  the  passage 
Had  entered  long  ere  now,  and  borne  down  all 
Before  'em,  to  the  palace  walls.     Unless 
The  king  in  person  animate  our  men,  3° 

Granada's  lost:  and  to  confirm  this  fear, 
The  traitor  Perez,  and  the  captive  Moor, 
Are  through  a  postern  fled,  and  join  the  foe. 

Gon.   Would  all  were  false  as  that;  for  whom  you  call 
The  Moor,  is  dead.     That  Osmyn  was  Alphonso; 
In  whose  heart's  blood  this  poniard  yet  is  warm. 

Gar.   Impossible,  for  Osmyn  was,  while  flying, 
Pronounced  aloud  by  Perez  for  Alphonso. 

Gon.    Enter  that  chamber,  and  convince  your  eyes. 
How  much  report  has  wronged  your  easy  faith.    ,  40 

[Garcia  goes  in. 

Alon.   My  lord,  for  certain  truth,  Perez  is  fled; 
And  has  declared  the  cause  of  his  revolt. 
Was  to  revenge  a  blow  the  king  had  given  him. 

Re-enter  Garcia 

Gar.   Ruin  and  horror!  O  heart- wounding  sight! 

Gon.   What  says  my  son?  what  ruin?  ha,  what  horror? 


436  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  [act  v 

Gar.   Blasted  my  eyes,  and  speechless  be  my  tongue! 
Rather  than  or  to  see,  or  to  relate 
This  deed.  —  O  dire  mistake!     0  fatal  blow! 
The  king  — 

Gon.   Alon.   The  king! 

Gar.  Dead,  weltering,  drowned  in  blood. 

See,  see,  attired  like  Osmyn,  where  he  lies!      [They  look  in. 
Oh,  whence,  or  how,  or  wherefore  was  this  done?  51 

But  what  imports  the  manner,  or  the  cause? 
Nothing  remains  to  do,  or  to  require. 
But  that  we  all  should  turn  our  swords  against 
Ourselves,  and  expiate  with  our  own  his  blood. 

Gon.   O  wretch!  0  cursed,  and  rash,  deluded  fool! 
On  me,  on  me,  turn  your  avenging  sword! 
I,  who  have  spilt  my  royal  master's  blood, 
Should  make  atonement  by  a  death  as  horrid; 
And  fall  beneath  the  hand  of  my  own  son.  60 

Gar.   Ha!  what?  atone  this  murder  with  a  greater? 
The  horror  of  that  thought  has  damped  my  rage. 
The  earth  already  groans  to  bear  this  deed; 
Oppress  her  not,  nor  think  to  stain  her  face 
With  more  unnatural  blood.     Murder  my  father! 
Better  with  this  to  rip  up  my  own  bowels, 
And  bathe  it  to  the  hilt,  in  far  less  damnable 
Self-murder. 

Gon.  0  my  son!  from  the  blind  dotage 

Of  a  father's  fondness  these  ills  arose; 
For  thee  I've  been  ambitious,  base,  and  bloody:  70 

For  thee  I've  plunged  into  this  sea  of  sin; 
Stemming  the  tide  with  only  one  weak  hand. 
While  t'other  bore  the  crown,  (to  wreath  thy  brow,) 
Whose  weight  has  sunk  me  ere  I  reached  the  shore. 

Gar.   Fatal  ambition!     Hark!  the  foe  is  entered. 

[A  shout. 
The  shrillness  of  that  shout  speaks  'em  at  hand. 
We  have  no  time  to  search  into  the  cause 
Of  this  surprising  tind  most  fatal  error, 


SCENE  II]  THE   MOURNING    BRIDE  437 

What's  to  be  done?  the  king's  death  known,  will  strike 
The  few  remaining  soldiers  with  despair,  80 

And  make  'em  yield  to  mercy  of  the  conqueror. 

Alon.   My  lord,  I've  thought  how  to  conceal  the  body; 
Require  me  not  to  tell  the  means  till  done. 
Lest  you  forbid  what  then  you  may  approve. 

[Goes  in.     More  shouting. 

Gon.   They  shout  again!     Whate'er  he  means  to  do, 
'Twere  fit  the  soldiers  were  amused  with  hopes; 
And  in  the  meantime  fed  with  expectation 
To  see  the  king  in  person  at  their  head. 

Gar.   Were  it  a  truth,  I  fear  'tis  now  too  late, 
But  I'll  omit  no  care,  nor  haste;   to  try  go 

Or  to  repel  their  force,  or  bravely  die.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  Alonzo 

Gon.   What  hast  thou  done,  Alonzo? 

Alon.  Such  a  deed 

As  but  an  hour  ago  I'd  not  have  done, 
Though  for  the  crown  of  universal  empire. 
But  what  are  kings  reduced  to  common  clay? 
Or  who  can  wound  the  dead?     I've  from  the  body 
Severed  the  head,  and  in  an  obscure  corner 
Disposed  it,  muffled  in  the  mute's  attire, 
Leaving  to  view  of  them  that  enter  next, 
Alone  the  undistinguished  trunk:  100 

Which  may  be  still  mistaken  by  the  guards 
For  Osmyn,  if  in  seeking  for  the  king 
They  chance  to  find  it. 

Gon.  'Twas  an  act  of  horror; 

And  of  a  piece  with  this  day's  dire  misdeeds. 
But  'tis  time  to  ponder  or  repent. 
Haste  thee,  Alonzo,  haste  thee  hence  with  speed, 
To  aid  my  son.     I'll  follow  with  the  last 
Reserve  to  reinforce  his  arms:  at  least, 
I  shall  make  good,  and  shelter  his  retreat.  [Exeunt. 


438  THE   MOURNING   BRIDE  [act  v     \ 


Scene  III 

The  same 

Enter  Zara,  followed  by  Selim,  and  two  Mutes  bearing 

Ike  bowls 

Zara.    Silence  and  solitude  are  everywhere! 
Through  all  the  gloomy  ways  and  iron  doors 
That  hither  lead,  nor  human  face  nor  voice 
Is  seen  or  heard.     A  dreadful  din  was  wont 
To  grate  the  sense,  when  entered  here;  from  groans 
And  howls  of  slaves  condemned,  from  clink  of  chains. 
And  crash  of  rusty  bars  and  cre-aking  hinges: 
And  ever  and  anon  the  sight  was  dashed 
With  frightful  faces,  and  the  meagre  looks 
Of  grim  and  ghastly  executioners.  lo 

Yet  more  this  stillness  terrifies  my  soul. 
Than  did  that  scene  of  complicated  horrors. 
It  may  be,  that  the  cause  of  this  my  errand 
And  purpose,  being  changed  from  life  to  death, 
Has  also  wrought  this  chilling  change  of  temper. 
Or  does  my  heart  bode  more?  what  can  it  more 
Than  death? 
[To  Selim.]    Let  'em  set  down  the  bowls,  and    warn 

Alphonso 
That  I  am  here  —  so.     [The  Mutes  go  in.]     You   return 

and  find 
The  king;   tell  him,  what  he  required  I've  done,  20 

And  wait  his  coming  to  approve  the  deed.     [E.vii  Selim. 

The  Mutes  return,  and  look  affrighted 

Zara.   What  have  you  seen?     Ha?  wherefore  stare  you 
thus 
With  haggard  eyes?  why  are  your  arms  across? 


SCENE  III]  THI^    MOURNING    BRIDE  439 

Your  heavy  and  desponding  heads  hung  down? 
Why  is't  you  more  than  speak  in  these  sad  signs? 
Give  me  more  ample  knowledge  of  this  mourning. 

[They  go  to  the  Scene,  which  opening,  she  perceives  the  body. 
Ha!  prostrate!  bloody!  headless!     Oh  —  I'm  lost! 

0  Osmyn!  0  Alphonso!    Cruel  fate! 
Cruel,  cruel,  O  more  than  killing  object! 

1  came  prepared  to  die,  and  see  thee  die  —  30 
Nay,  came  prepared  myself  to  give  thee  death  — 

But  cannot  bear  to  find  thee  thus,  my  Osmyn  — 

0  this  accursed,  this  base,  this  treacherous  king! 

Re-enter  Selim 

Sel.   I've  sought  in  vain,  for  nowhere  can  the  king 
Be  found. 

Zara.         Get  thee  to  hell,  and  seek  him  there ! 

'  [Stabs  him. 

His  helhsh  rage  had  wanted  means  to  act, 
But  for  thy  fatal  and  pernicious  counsel. 

Sel.   You  thought  it  better  then  —  but  I'm  rewarded: 
The  mute  you  sent  by  some  mischance  was  seen, 
And  forced  to  yield  your  letter  with  his  Hfe:  40 

1  found  the  dead  and  bloody  body  stripped  — 
My  tongue  falters,  and  my  voice  fails  —  I  sink  — 
Drink  not  the  poison  —  for  Alphonso  is  —  [Dies. 

Zara.   As  thou  art  now  —  and  I  shall  quickly  be. 
'Tis  not  that  he  is  dead;   for  'twas  decreed 
We  both  should  die.     Nor  is't  that  I  survive; 
I  have  a  certain  remedy  for  that. 
But  oh,  he  died  unknowing  in  my  heart! 
He  knew  I  loved,  but  knew  not  to  what  height: 
Nor  that  I  meant  to  fall  before  his  eyes,  so 

A  martyr  and  a  victim  to  my  vows : 
Insensible  of  this  last  proof  he's  gone. 
Yet  fate  alone  can  rob  his  mortal  part 
Of  sense;   his  soul  still  sees,  and  knows  each  purpose, 


440  THE   MOURNING   BRIDE  [act  v 

And  fixed  event  of  my  persisting  faith. 

Then,  wherefore  do  I  pause?  give  me  the  bowl. 

[A  Mute  kneels  and  gives  one  of  the  bowls. 
Hover  a  moment,  yet,  thou  gentle  spirit. 
Soul  of  my  love,  and  I  will  wait  thy  flight! 
This  to  our  mutual  bliss  when  joined  above.         [Drinks. 

0  friendly  draught,  already  in  my  heart!  60 
Cold,  cold!  my  veins  are  icicles  and  frost. 

I'll  creep  into  his  bosom,  lay  me  there; 

Cover  us  close  —  or  I  shall  chill  his  breast, 

And  fright  him  from  my  arms.  —  See,  see,  he  slides 

Still  further  from  me!  look,  he  hides  his  face! 

1  cannot  feel  it  —  quite  beyond  my  reach  — 

Oh,  now  he's  gone,  and  all  is  dark  —  [Dies. 

[The  Mutes  kneel  and  mourn  over  her. 

Enter  Almeria  and  Leonora 

Aim.   Oh,  let  me  seek  him  in  this  horrid  cell; 
For  in  the  tomb,  or  prison,  I  alone 
Must  hope  to  find  him. 

Leon.  Heavens!  what  dismal  scene  70 

Of  death  is  this?     The  eunuch  Selim  slain! 

Aim.   Show  me,  for  I  am  come  in  search  of  death; 
But  want  a  guide;  for  tears  have  dimmed  my  sight. 

Leon.   Alas,  a  little  farther,  and  behold 
Zara  all  pale  and  dead!  two  frightful  men, 
Who  seem  the  murderers,  kneel  weeping  by, 
Feeling  remorse  too  late  for  what  they've  done. 
But,  oh,  forbear  —  lift  up  your  eyes  no  more; 
But  haste  away,  fly  from  this  fatal  place! 
Where  miseries  are  multiphed;  return,  80 

Return!  and  not  look  on;  for  there's  a  dagger 
Ready  to  stab  the  sight,  and  make  your  eyes 
Rain  blood. 

Aim.  Oh,  I  foreknow,  foresee  that  object. 

Is  it  at  last  then  so?  is  he  then  dead? 


SCENE  III]  THE   MOURNING   BRIDE  441 

What,  dead  at  last!  quite,  quite,  for  ever  dead! 

There,  there  I  see  him!  there  he  hes,  the  blood 

Yet  bubbling  from  his  wounds  —  O  more  than  savage! 

Had  they  or  hearts  or  eyes,  that  did  this  deed! 

Could  eyes  endure  to  guide  such  cruel  hands? 

Are  not  my  eyes  guilty  aUke  with  theirs,  90 

That  thus  can  gaze,  and  yet  not  turn  to  stone? 

I  do  not  weep!     The  springs  of  tears  are  dried 

And  of  a  sudden  I  am  calm,  as  if 

All  things  were  well:  and  yet  my  husband's  murdered! 

Yes,  yes,  I  know  to  mourn!     I'll  sluice  this  heart, 

The  source  of  woe,  and  let  the  torrent  loose. 

Those  men  have  left  to  weep!  they  look  on  me! 

I  hope  they  murder  all  on  whom  they  look. 

Behold  me  well;  your  bloody  hands  have  erred, 

And  wrongfully  have  slain  these  innocents;  100 

lam  the  sacrifice  designed  to  bleed; 

And  come  prepared  to  yield  my  throat  —  they  shake 

Their  heads,  in  sign  of  grief  and  innocence! 

[The  Mutes  point  to  the  bowl  on  the  ground. 

And  point  —  what  mean  they?     Ha!    a  cup.     Oh,  well 

I  understand  what  medicine  has  been  here. 

O  noble  thirst!  yet  greedy  to  drink  all  — 

Oh,  for  another  draught  of  death.  —  What  mean  they? 

[The  Mutes  point  to  the  other  cup. 

Ha!  point  again?  'tis  there,  and  full,  I  hope. 

Thanks  to  the  liberal  hand  that  filled  thee  thus; 

I'll  drink  my  glad  acknowledgment  — 

Leon.  Oh,  hold. 

For  mercy's  sake!  upon  my  knee  I  beg  — 

Aim.   With  thee  the  kneeling  world  should  beg  in  vain 

Seest  thou  not  there?  behold  who  prostrate  lies, 

And  pleads  against  thee?  who  shall  then  prevail? 

Yet  I  will  take  a  cold  and  parting  leave, 

From  his  pale  lips;  I'll  kiss  him,  ere  I  drink. 

Lest  the  rank  juice  should  blister  on  my  mouth. 

And  stain  the  colour  of  my  last  adieu. 


no 


442  THE   MOURNING   BRIDE  [act  v 

Horror!   a  headless  trunk!  nor  lips  nor  face, 

[Coming  nearer  the  body,  starts  and  lets  fall  the  cup. 
But  spouting  veins,  and  mangled  flesh!     Oh,  oh!  120 

Enter  Alphonso,  Heli,  Perez,  with  Garcia  prisoner, 
Guards  and  Attendants 

Alph.   Away,  stand  off!  where  is  she?  let  me  fly, 
Save  her  from  death,  and  snatch  her  to  my  heart. 

Aim.   Oh! 

Alph.   Forbear;  my  arms  alone  shall  hold  her  up, 
Warm  her  to  Ufe,  and  wake  her  into  gladness. 
Oh,  let  me  talk  to  thy  reviving  sense, 
The  words  of  joy  and  peace !  warm  thy  cold  beauties, 
With  the  new-flushing  ardour  of  my  cheek! 
Into  thy  lips  pour  the  soft  trickling  balm 
Of  cordial  sighs!  and  re-inspire  thy  bosom  130 

With  the  breath  of  love!     Shine,  awake,  Almeria! 
Give  a  new  birth  to  thy  long-shaded  eyes. 
Then  double  on  the  day  reflected  light! 

Aim.   Where  am  I?     Heaven!  what  does  this  dream 
intend? 

Alph.   Oh,  mayst  thou  never  dream  of  less  delight. 
Nor  ever  wake  to  less  substantial  joys! 

Aim.    Given  me  again  from  death!      O  all  ye  powers 
Confirm  this  rniracle!     Can  I  believe 
My  sight,  against  my  sight?  and  shall  I  trust 
That  sense,  which  in  one  instant  shows  him  dead  140 

And  living?     Yes,  I  will;  I've  been  abused 
With  apparitions  and  affrighting  phantoms: 
This  is  my  lord,  my  life,  my  only  husband: 
I  have  him  now,  and  we  no  more  will  part. 
My  father  too  shall  have  compassion  — 

Alph.   O  my  heart's  comfort!  'tis  not  given  to  this 
Frail  life,  to  be  entirely  blessed.     Even  now. 
In  this  extremest  joy  my  soul  can  taste. 
Yet  am  I  dashed  to  think  that  thou  must  weep; 


SCENE  III]  THE    MOURNING   BRIDE  443 

Thy  father  fell,  where  he  designed  my  death.  150 

Cionsalez  and  Alonzo,  both  of  wounds 
Expiring,  have  with  their  last  breath  confessed 
The  just  decrees  of  Heaven,  which  on  themselves 
Has  turned  their  own  most  bloody  purposes. 
Nay,  I  must  grant,  'tis  fit  you  should  be  thus  — 

[Almeria  weeps. 
Let  'em  remove  the  body  from  her  sight. 
Ill-fated  Zara!     Ha!    a  cup?     Alas! 
Thy  error  then  is  plain;  but  I  were  flint 
Not  to  o'erflow  in  tribute  to  thy  meiiiory. 
O  Garcia!  160, 

Whose  virtue  has  renounced  thy  father's  crimes; 
Seest  thou,  how  just  the  hand  of  Heaven  has  been? 
Let  us,  who  through  our  innocence  survive, 

SHU  in  the  paths  of  honour  persevere, 
And  not  from  past  or  present  ills  despair: 
For  blessings  ever  wait  on  virtuous  deeds; 
And  though  a  late  a  sure  reivard  succeeds. 

[Exeunt  omnes. 


EPILOGUE 

SPOKEN   BY   MRS.    BRACEGIRDLE. 

The  tragedy  thus  done,  I  am,  you  know, 

No  more  a  princess,  but  in  statu  quo: 

And  now  as  unconcerned  this  mourning  wear, 

As  if  indeed  a  widow  or  an  heir. 

I've  leisure  now  to  mark  your  several  faces, 

And  know  each  critic  by  his  sour  grimaces. 

To  poison  plays,  I  see  some  where  they  sit. 

Scattered,  like  ratsbane,  up  and  down  the  pit; 

While  others  watch  Hke  parish  searchers,  hired 

To  tell  of  what  disease  the  play  expired."  ic 

Oh,  with  what  joy  they  run  to  spread  the  news 

Of  a  damned  poet,  and  departed  muse! 

But  if  he  scape,  with  what  regret  they're  seized! 

And  how  they're  disappointed  when  they're  pleased! 

Critics  to  plays  for  the  same  end  resort. 

That  surgeons  wait  on  trials  in  a  court; 

For  innocence  condemned  they've  no  respect, 

Provided  they've  a  body  to  dissect. 

As  Sussex-men  that  dwell  upon  the  shore. 

Look  out  when  storms  arise,  and  billows  roar  20 

Devoutly  praying,  with  uplifted  hands. 

That  some  well-laden  ship  may  strike  the  sands; 

To  whose  rich  cargo  they  may  make  pretence, 

And  fatten  on  the  spoils  of  Providence: 

So  critics  throng  to  see  a  new  play  split, 

And  thrive  and  prosper  on  the  wrecks  of  wit. 

Small  hope  our  poet  from  these  prospects  draws; 

And  therefore  to  the  fair  commends  his  cause. 

Your  tender  hearts  to  mercy  are  inclined. 

With  whom,  he  hopes,  this  play  will  favour  find,  30 

Which  was  an  offering  to  the  sex  designed. 

444 


NOTES 

Figures  in  black  type  refer  to  pages  ;  those  in  light  face  to  lines. 

THE   DOUBLE-DEALER 

41.  Interdum  tamen  .  .  .  tollit.  Yet  even  comedy  at  times 
assumes  a  higher  tone.  —  Huic  equidem  .  .  .  fallam.  I  give 
the  palm  to  this  plan ;  I  am  proud  of  having  such  force  in  my- 
self, and  the  mastery  of  such  cunning  as  to  deceive  them  both 
by  telHng  the  truth. 

44 :  14.  The  second  temple  .  .  .  first.  A  comparison  be- 
tween the  drama  before  the  Restoration  and  that  following  it.  — 
15.  Vitruvius.  The  famous  Roman  authority  on  architec- 
ture, probably  a  subject  of  Augustus.  —  17.  Firm  Doric 
pillars  .  .  .  base.  The  Doric  is  the  oldest  of  the  three  orders 
of  Greek  architecture. 

45 :  39.  Romano.  Julio  Romano,  a  celebrated  Italian 
painter,  friend  and  student  of  Raphael.  He  died  in  1546.  — 
46.  A  greater  Edward.  Edward  II  was  succeeded  on  his 
deposition  by  Edward  III,  in  whose  reign  England  began  her 
career  of  conquest  in  France.  —  48.  For  Tom  the  second  .  .  . 
first.  Dryden's  successor  as  poet-laureate  was  Thomas  Shad- 
well.  Tom  the  first  may  be  Thomas  KilHgrew,  who,  while  not 
poet-laureate,  was  a  popular  manager  afid  playwright  at  the 
Restoration.  —  55.  Thy  first  attempt  .  .  .  made.  The  Old 
Bachelor,  Congreve's  first  comedy,  written  in  1690,  three  years 
before  the  composition  of  The  Double- Dealer.  —  5S.  That  your 
least  praise  .  .  .  regular.  That  is,  to  conform  to  the  demands 
of  the  "  regular  drama,"  the  drama  which  maintained  the 
unities  of  time,  place,  and  action. 

51.  Mrs.  Bracegirdle.  .Ann  Bracegirdle  was  one  of  the  most 
brilliant  and  popular  actresses  of  her  day.  She  took  principal 
parts  in  most  of  Congreve's  plays  and,  according  to  the  best 
accounts,  was  a  woman  of  virtuous  life  and  generous  disposition. 
Congreve  was  in  love  with  her,  but  there  seems  to  be  no  truth 
in  the  story  that  he  was  secretly  married  to  her.  He  left  her 
£200  at  his  death. 

445 


446  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER 

56:i2o.  Exquisite  woman  !  Fundamentally,  c.vgMwz'/e  means 
much  sought  after,  rare ;  hence  the  word  is  as  applicable  to  wick- 
edness as  to  virtue. 

61:  122.  mortify  him.  Kill  the  pimple.  —  123.  Then  .  .  . 
supply  you.  In  allusion  to  the  familiar  custom  of  the  women  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  that  of  wearing  bits  of  black  plaster  on 
their  faces  to  heighten  their  colour. 

63:  32.  whose  black  .  .  .  bad.  Black  bile,  or  atrabile,  was 
thought  to  cause  melancholy  and  anger.  Since  everybody  was 
supposed  to  have  more  or  less  black  bile  in  his  system  which 
might  get  the  upper  hands  of  him  at  times,  sudden  bursts  of 
anger  were  excusable ;  but  for  a  man  whose  blood  ran  temper- 
ately there  could  be  no  excuse.  —  48.  a  servant.  See  Intro- 
duction, p.  16. 

67:  31.  a  blue  ribbon  and  a  star.  The  insignia  of  an  Eng- 
lish peer  who  is  a  member  of  the  Order  of  the  Garter,  the  high- 
est order  of  knighthood  in  Great  Britain.  —  32.  Phosphorus. 
The  morning  star.  —  51.  je  ne  sais  quoi.  I  do  not  know  what, 
out  of  the  ordinary. 

69:  117.  keen  iambics.  Cutting  satire,  from  the  circum- 
stance that  the  Roman  poets  employed  iambic  measure  for 
satire.  —  119.  an  essay  toward  an  heroic  poem.  An  attempt 
to  compose  an  heroic  poem.  —  123.  The  Sillabub.  A  sillabub 
was  a,  dish  prepared  by  mixing  wine  with  milk  or  cream  and 
flavouring  with  lemon  juice.  The  concoction  was  insipid  to  the 
taste,  hence  "  The  Sillabub  "  was  a  good  title  for  a  poem  setting 
forth  the  love  of  the  Froths.  The  words  Spumoso  and  Lactilla 
indicate  that  in  this  p?)etical  mixture  Lord  Froth  was  to  be  the 
foam,  his  Lady  the  milk. 

70:139.  Bossu.  Rene  le  Bossu,  a  seventeenth-century 
French  churchman  and  humanist,  author  of  a  treatise  on  epic 
poetry,  published  in  1675.  —  140.  Rapin.  Nicolas  Rapin,  a 
notable  French  poet,  one  of  the  authors  of  the  famous  Satyre 
Menlppe  in  the  latter  part  of  the  sixteenth  century.  —  140. 
Dacier.  Andre  Dacier,  a  French  classical  scholar  who  trans- 
lated Aristotle's  Poetics  and  Horace's  Arl  of  Poetry. 

71:  167.  and  the  two  nearest  .  .  .  together.  In  eighteenth- 
century  bowling  the  object  of  each  player  was  to  get  his  bowl 
as  near  as  possible  to  the  cones  at  which  the  balls  were  rolled. 

72  :  198.  I'll  firk  him  with  a  certiorari.  Sir  Paul  uses  firk  in 
the  sense  of  beat ;   Lady  Plyant  in  the  common  vulgar  sense.     A 


THE   DOUBLE-DEALER  447 

crrliorari  was  a  writ  issued  from  a  superior  court  upon  the  com- 
l)laint  of  a  person  that  a  fair  trial  is  unobtainable  in  the  court 
below.  —  212.  Slidikins.  The  form  slid  is  an  abbreviation  of 
the  phrase  God's  lid;  slidikins  is  a  mock  diminutive.  —  220—223. 
I  cannot  incorporate  .  .  .  poet  says.  Sir  Paul  forgets  in  his 
anger  to  be  accurate.  —  228.  have  my  head  fortified.  By  hav- 
ing the  cuckold's  pair  of  horns  given  him. 

73:243.  Thy.  Sir  Paul's  nickname  for  Cynthia.  —  245. 
and  the  crocodile  of  Nilus  in  his  belly.  The  crocodile  was  sup- 
posed to  weep  while  it  devoured  its  victims  or  to  allure  them  to 
itself  by  weeping.  The  meaning  then  is  :  His  sympathy  is  mere 
malicious  pretence. 

74:298.  corum  nobus.  Lady  Plyant's  mistake  for  coram 
nobis,  before  us,  in  the  presence  of  authority,  before  the 
court.  Lady  Plyant  feels  that  she  is  a  person  of  particular 
authority  in  matters  of  this  kind. — -3,01.  mathemacular. 
Lady  Plyant's  malapropism  for  mathematical. 

76:312.  O  my  precious  aunt  .  .  .  conjunction.  That  is, 
working  together.  "  In  conjunction  "  in  astrology  was  applied 
to  two  planets  or  stars  which  were  in  the  same  sign  of  the  zodiac, 
and  hence,  which  brought  both  their  influences  to  bear  on  an 
event  or  a  person. 

76:376.  Machiavelian.  Nicholas  Machiavelli,, the  author  of 
Del  Principe  and  an  eminent  writer  on  government  of  the 
Italian  Middle  Ages  was  the  symbol  of  all  sorts  of  evil  scheming. 

77:380-382.  the  witch  .  .  .  parted.  In  allusion  to  the 
popular  superstition  concerning  the  powers  of  witches.  See 
especially  Macbeth,  I.  iii. 

83:  122.  good  dear  my  lord.  A  common  inversion  for 
"  my  dear  good  lord  "  ;  compare  the  Elizabethan  "  good  my 
lord." 

86:179.  Pox!  Equivalent  to  the  present-day  expression 
"  plague  take  it."  — •  184.  smoke.  Find  out,  discover.  The 
word  as  here  used  is  connected  with  the  idea  of  smoking  out  an 
animal  concealed. 

86:  223.  a  plum.  A  sugar  plum,  eaten  commonly  in  Con- 
greve's  day  for  the  purpose  of  sweetening  the  breath. 

90  :  100.    so  bonne  mine.     Of  so  fine  an  air  or  carriage. 

91 :  140.  an't  please  you.  If  it  please  you.  And,  and  if,  an, 
and  an  if  were  all  used  for  if  in  the  language  of  the  time. 

96 :  64.    fulsamic.     Lady    Froth's    word    for   fulsome.  —  73. 


448  THE   DOUBLE-DEALER 

eryngoes.     The  candied  root  of  the  sea-holly  used  as  a  sweet- 
meat and  regarded  as  an  aphrodisiac. 

100  :  26.    perspective.     Telescope. 

106:138.  O  crimine!  O  sin!  an  affected  oath.  Cf.  "  O 
jiminy  !  " 

109:  218.  Prince  Volscius  in  love  !  Doubtless  an  allusion  to 
one  of  the  personages  in  a  popular  romance  of  the  day. 

110 :  245.  purely.  A  slang  adverb  of  the  moment  for  really, 
truly. 

Ill :  8.  praemunire.  The  first  word  of  a  writ  issued  for  the 
offence  of  contempt  of  the  king  or  of  his  government.  Lady 
Plyant  evidently  uses  it  without  any  clear  id?a  of  its  meaning, 
but  she  is  aware  that  it  means  something  pretty  serious.  —  28. 
Judas  Maccabeus  and  Iscariot  both  !  That  is,  both  a  rebel  and  a 
traitor.  Judas  Maccabeus  was  the  leader  of  the  Jews  in  their 
revolt  from  Syria.  Nothing  but  the  agitation  of  Sir  Paid,  and 
the  likeness  in  names  can  account  for  the  coupling  together  of 
Judas  Maccabeus  and  Judas  Iscariot. 

112 :  72.  the  Commons.  The  common  table  of  the  doctors  of 
civil  law  in  London. 

118  :  59.  Erasmus'  paradise.  Erasmus  was  left  an  orphan  at 
thirteen  and  defrauded  of  his  inheritance. 

120 :  130.  forks  out  .  .  .  fingers.  She  makes  the  sign  of  the 
cuckold  with  her  two  fingers  extended  and  held  apart  like  horns. 
—  131.  horn-mad  after  your  fortune.  Crazy  to  be  made  a 
cuckold. 

122:11-13.  for  she  would  .  .  .  excuse.  On  this  passage 
see  the  Introduction,  p.  20. 

126  :  24.  property.  A  thing  desired  for  a  particular  purpose,  a 
tool.  —  24.    baiting-place.     An  inn  to  stop  at  temporarily. 

129 :  44.  St.  Albans.  A  town  some  twenty  miles  northwest 
of  London.  —  61.  qui  vult  decipi  decipiatur.  Let  him  be  de- 
ceived who  wishes  to  be  deceived. 

138 :  48.  Your  ladyship  .  .  .  man  in't  already.  The  refer- 
ence is  to  a  figure  of  a  man  marked  out  with  lines  referring  to  the 
signs  of  the  zodiac,  to  be  found  in  old-fashioned  almanacs  even 
of  the  present  day. 

139 :  84.  You  know  .  .  .  than  usual.  The  planet  was  sup- 
posed to  govern  hate  and  melancholy. 

140.  Mrs.  Mountford.  Born  Susanna  Percival,  this  well- 
known  actress  of  Betterton's  company  married  the  playwright 


LOVE   FOR   LOVE  449 

Mountford  or  Mountfort  in  1686.  After  Mountfort's  assas- 
sination in  i6q2,  she  married  John  Verbruggen,  an  actor.  She 
was  the  acknowledged  queen  of  comedy  in  her  time.  —  24. 
action,  too,  and  time,  and  place.  The  reference  is  to  the  three 
unities  of  the  classical  drama.  —  26.  assignation  learning.  A 
hit  at  the  lax  morals  of  the  time.  —  28.  cits.  A  contemptuous 
term  for  citizen  —  an  inhabitant  of  London,  one  in  trade,  in 
distinction  from  a  gentleman  whose  seat  was  in  the  country, 
however  he  might  come  up  to  town  and  court. 

LOVE    FOR    LOVE 

143.  Nudus  agris  .  .  .  modoque.  Stripped  of  money  and  of 
his  paternal  estates,  he  prepares  to  go  mad  by  rule  and  reason. 

148.  Mr.  Betterton.  Thomas  Betterton  was  the  most 
celebrated  actor  of  his  day  and  held  the  stage  from  the  Restora- 
tion almost  up  to  the  time  of  his  death  in  17 10.  As  a  man  and  a 
theatrical  manager  his  character  was  above  reproach. 

149 :  3g.  Since  .  .  .  rage.  The  Plain  Dealer  is  the  most 
characteristic  play  of  William  Wycherley.  Its  purpose,  as 
affirmed  in  the  preface,  is  to  "  display  life  as  it  really  is."  It  is 
as  coarse  as  it  is  powerful. 

152  :  38.   just  such  another  reason.     Just  such  a  reason. 

153 :  79.  to  crambo.  A  game  in  which  one  person  sets  a  line 
of  verse  and  the  next  caps  it  with  a  rhyme.  —  80-82.  you  may 
arrive  ...  an  unknown  hand.  One  of  the  many  ways  of  dis- 
tributing the  lampoons  of  the  day.  —  82.  a  chocolate-house 
lampoon.  A  libellous  or  scandalous  poem  recited  or  posted 
in  a  chocolate-house.  Chocolate-houses,  like  tea-houses,  were 
favourite  places  of  rendezvous.  ^  88.  Will's  Coffee-house.  A 
famous  coffee-house  in  Covent  Garden,  Russell  Street,  named 
from  its  proprietor,  William  Urwin.  It  was  the  haunt  espe- 
cially of  literary  men  and  poets.  There  Dryden  himself  held 
sway  in  the  days  when  he  was  literary  dictator.  —  8g.  Royal 
Oak  lottery.  Lotteries  were  a  common  mode  of  raising  money 
in  Congreve's  day,  even  the  government  occasionally  resorted 
to  them. 

154:  100.  upon  tick.  On  ticket,  that  is,  on  credit,  so  called 
from  the  ticket  or  card  with  a  written  acknowledgment  of  debt, 
given  as  security. 

155  :  133.   a  writ  of  inquiry.     A  writ  demanding  an  investiga- 

CONCREVE  —  29 


450  LOVE   FOR   LOVE 

lion  or  an  inquest.  —  138.  a  martyr  to  sense.  A  martyr  to 
the  denial  of  the  senses.  —  140.  the  full  cry.  The  whole  pack. 
Scandal's  idea  is  that  Valentine  will  soon  fall  in  line  with  the 
general  tendency  to  lead  a  life  of  pleasure. 

156  :  198.  lawful  pads.  Baillies,  lawful  as  officers  of  the  law, 
whose  business  it  is  to  make  arrests,  pads  as  pursuing  their 
vocation  on  the  streets  like  foot-pads.  —  199.  pocket-tipstaves. 
The  staff  of  a  constable  was  tipped  with  a  horn,  hence  the  term 
"  tipstaff  " ;  pocket,  because  the  emblem  of  authority  was 
concealed  until  the  right  moment  to  assure  arrest. 

157 1215.  don't  spoil  my  boy's  milk.  By  making  too  violent 
love  to  his  nurse. 

158:258.  the  Poultry.  The  street  in  London  connecting 
Cheapside  and  Cornhill,  and  so  called  because  the  market  for 
fowls  was  once  hold  there. 

159:273.  a  Barbary  shape.  The  Moorish  women  were 
famous  for  their  beauty,  or  perhaps  rather  for  their  buxomness. 

161 :  44.  in  the  posture  of  a  whisper.  In  the  position  of  one 
whispering.  —  50.  as  a  doctor  .  .  .  bishopric.  As  a  graduate 
in  theology  would  say  A^o  to  an  offer  of  a  bishop's  seat. 

162  :  61.  to  play  at  losing  loadum.  A  game  of  cards  in  which 
the  loser  won  the  game.  —  80.  conversed.  Here,  as  often,  in 
the  comedy  of  the  Restoration,  the  word  converse  carries  a  hint 
of  a  closer  and  sinister  relation. 

166 :  204.  No,  nothing  under  a  right  honourable.  The  title 
"  right  honourable  "  was  given  only  to  peers  and  peeresses  of  the 
realm. 

167 :  250.  cast  both  their  nativities.  Calculate  the  position 
of  the  planets  at  the  time  of  a  child's  birth  to  determine  accord- 
ing to  the  rules  of  astrology  their  influence  upon  his  future  life.  — 
255.  Artemidorus.  A  Greek  physician  of  the  second  century, 
A.D.,  reported  an  interpreter  of  dreams. 

168:  277.  the  Seasons  and  the  Twelve  Caesars  .  .  .  and  the 
Five  Senses.  Evidently  cheap  and  common  prints  of  the 
time.  Note  the  play  on  the  word  original  in  its  usual  sense  and 
in  its  meaning,  a  fool.  —  295.  Kneller's.  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller, 
the  famous  portrait  painter,  successor  of  Sir  Peter  Lely  as  por- 
trait painter  to  the  royalty  and  nobility  of  the  time  of  Charles  TI 
and  William.  The  frontispiece  of  this  volume  is  an  engraving 
from  his  portrait  of  Congreve. 

169:314.    cupping  for   a  complexion.     Bleeding   himself   to 


LOVE   FOR   LOVE  451 

make  his  colour  good.  —  317.  a  lady  burning  brandy  .  .  . 
hackney-coachman.  From  Mrs.  Frail's  reception  of  it,  a  thrust 
that  tells.  —  320.  hieroglyphics.  Evidently  caricatures.  —  333. 
Steenkirk  cravats.  A  rather  loosely  tied  neckcloth  named  from 
the  battle  of  Steenkirk,  fought  in  1692.  —  334.  with  catcalls  .  .  . 
their  necks.  The  catcall  was  a  metal  whistle  with  which  the 
audience  in  a  playhouse  expressed  its  disapproval  of  a  play. 
A  horn-book  was  an  A  B  C  card  covered  with  horn  for  its  pro- 
tection from  soil. 

170 :  342.  the  Exchange.  This  was  the  New  Exchange,  a 
kind  of  bazaar  on  the  south  side  of  the  Strand  whither  a  woman 
might  go  a-shopping;   not  the  Ro3'al  Exchange  or  Bourse. 

171 :  6.  Sure  .  .  .  fortitudes.  The  moon  was  the  astro- 
logical symbol  of  inconstancy.  —  18.  Wee'st  heart.  The 
nurse's  expression  for  "  Woe's  ray  heart." 

172 :  46.  Messahalah  the  Arabian.  A  famous  writer  upon 
astrology.  —  53.    Ne  mar'le.     No  marvel,  no  wonder. 

173 :  66.  to  erect  a  scheme.  To  make  an  astrological  cal- 
culation. There  is  an  obvious  play  on  the  word  conjunction 
which  had  a  technical  sense  in  astrology.  —  70.  lord  of  the 
ascendant.  The  easternmost  star  in  the  sign  of  the  zodiac  under 
which  a  person  was  born,  representing  the  house  of  life,  was  the 
ascendant.  When  conditions  were  such  that  the  astrologer 
could  make  a  favourable  prediction,  this  star  was  said  to  be 
lord  of  the  ascendant.  The  play  on  the  word  is  again  obvious.  — 
87.  the  apostle  spoons.  Spoons  given  at  christenings,  and 
bearing  each  the  figure  of  an  apostle  on  the  handle. 

174 :  104.  like  Saul  and  the  witch  of  Endor.  See  Samuel  i. 
28.  —  105.  turning  the  sieve  and  shears.  An  old  method  of 
divination.  —  106.  and  pricking  .  .  .  blool.  In  this  and  in 
her  two  or  three  subsequent  speeches  Angelica  accuses  her  uncle 
and  the  nurse  of  practising  some  of  the  common  tricks  of  the 
astrologers,  wise  men,  and  witches  of  the  day.  —  126.  the  ma- 
licious .  .  .  nativity.  The  third  house  of  a  man's  nativity 
controlled,  among  other  things,  all  his  relations  with  his  kindred. 
To  Foresight.  Angelica's  breach  of  dutiful  conduct  is  due  to  the 
unfavourable  signs  discovered  in  the  third  house  of  his  nativity 
when  his  horoscope  was  cast. 

175:132.  no  mankind.  No  living  man.  —  134.  the  Bull, 
and  the  Ram,  and  the  Goat.  Three  signs  of  the  zodiac,  important 
in    astrological    calculations.  —  149.   a    mole    upon    her    lip 


452  LOVE   FOR   LOVE 

Moles  in  different  parts  of  the  body  had  different  significations 
in  the  superstition  of  the  day.  —  149.  with  a  moist  palm.  A 
moist  palm  was  an  indication  of  wantonness. —  150.  an  open 
liberality  on  the  mount  of  Venus.  Breadth  in  that  part  of  palm 
which  indicates  amativeness.  —  156.  Good-b'w'ys-  An  inter- 
mediate form  between  "  God  be  with  you,"  and  good-bye. 

176:  167.  Ptolemy.  Claudius  Ptolemaeus,  a  celebrated  Alex- 
andrian astronomer,  who  lived  in  the  second  century,  a.d.  — 
169.  Nostrodamus.  Otherwise  Michel  Notre-Damc,  a  French 
physician  and  astrologer  who  lived  in  the  first  half  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  author  of  certain  mystic  prophecies  written  in 
quatrains.  —  1 76.  signatum,  sigillatum,  and  deliberatum. 
Signed,  sealed,  and  delivered. 

177:  199.  sapiens  dominabitur  astris.  The  wise  man  shall 
rule  by  the  stars.  —  201.  old  Fircu.  Possibly  a  nickname  for 
some  famous  astrologer,  but  the  reference  is  obscure.  —  206- 
208.  Can  judge  .  .  .  trigons.  Some  of  the  commonest  tech- 
nical terms  of  astrological  science  which  Foresight  uses  in  order 
to  baffle  Sir  Sampson.  Motions  are  the  movements  of  planets 
through  the  zodiac.  Sextiles,  quadrates,  trines,  oppositions  and 
trigons  have  to  do  with  the  "  aspects  "  or  relative  positions  which 
planets  assume  with  reference  to  each  other  and  the  sun  and 
moon. —  223.  a  conjurer  .  .  .  circle.  The  conjurers  were  accus- 
tomed to  draw  a  circle  on  the  ground  with  the  wand,  within  which 
magical  influence  was  supposed  to  reign.  —  230.  Capricorn. 
One  of  the  twelve  signs  of  the  zodiac.  — -232.  Mandeville. 
The  reputed  author  of  The  Travels  of  Sir  John  Mandeville,  no- 
torious for  his  lies,  hence  here  equivalent  to  "  thou  liar."  —  232. 
Ferdinand  Mendez  Pinto.  A  Portugxiese  adventurer  and 
traveller,  almost  equally  notorious  for  his  strange  tales. 

178 :  239.  Albumazar.  A  celebrated  Arabian  astronomer, 
famihar  to  English  audiences  because  of  a  play  in  which  the 
name  is  employed  for  a  quack  astrologer.  Here  any  astrologer. 
—  244.  Haly.  Edmund  Halley,  a  great  English  astronomer, 
discoverer  of  Halley's  comet.  Halley  was  a  contemporary  of 
Congreve  and  outlived  him.  —  248.  powdered  with  hiero- 
glyphics.    Covered  with  hieroglyphics. 

179 :  300.  to  see  you  go  up  Holborn  Hill.  The  way  to 
Tyburn,  the  place  of  execution. 

180 :  304.  without  the  benefit  0'  the  clergy.  William  II,  on 
account  of  the  low  condition  of  learning  in  his  reign,  absolved 


LOVE   FOR   LOVE  453 

those  who  could  read  from  the  penalties  attached  to  certain 
crimes.  Sir  Sampson  means  that  Valentine's  "  rogue's  face  " 
is  such  that  the  benefit  of  the  clergy  cannot  be  plead  in  extenua- 
tion of  it. 

181 :  354.  a  ten-shilling  ordinary.  A  restaurant,  the  price  of  a 
meal  at  which  was  ten  shillings;  very  elaborate  service  for  the 
day.  —  370.  poor  John.  A  dried  hake  or  other  fish.  —  375. 
give  me  the  spleen.     Make  me  ill-tempered. 

182  :  384.  go  upstairs  out  of  the  world.  Be  hanged.  —  403. 
perform  covenants.     Keep  your  agreements. 

183 :  26.  Knightsbridge  .  .  Barn  Elms.  These  were  fash- 
ionable but  rather  questionable  places  of  resort  in  and  about 
London  in  Congreve's  day.  In  the  Spectator  and  Miss  Burney's 
Evelina  may  be  found  interesting  information  especially  of 
Spring  Garden  and  the  amusements  there. 

184 :  38.  the  World's  End.  A  tavern  which  formed  part  of 
the  attraction  at  Knightsbridge. 

186:  115.  Is  not  it  pure?  Is  it  not  the  finest  thing  you  ever 
heard  of  ?  Pure  in  this  sense  is  a  synonym  of  the  modern  slang 
word  "great."  —  116.  mun.  Man.  This  familiar  term  of 
address,  applied  to  man  or  woman  is  indicative  of  Prue's  pro- 
vincial speech. 

189 :  234.  Covent  Garden.  A  locality  of  fashion  but  loose 
morals  in  Congreve's  time. 

191 :  10.  fine  doings  towards!  Fine  things  going  on  !  —  11. 
harlotry.     Harlot,  here  meaning  no  more  than  rogue,  minx. 

194  :  92.   too  far  put.     Carried  too  far. 

195:134.  Locket's,  Pontac's,  the  Rummer.  Three  famous 
taverns  of  Congreve's  day. 

196  :  138.  the  Hermaphrodite,  or  the  Naked  Prince.  Two  of 
the  shows  of  the  day.  —  149.  into  the  science.  That  is,  the 
science  of  love.  —  165.  for  there  were  .  .  .  raffled.  A  great 
many  ladies  whose  reputations  were  raffled  off.  In  rafiling  a 
sum  of  money  was  divided  into  equal  parts  and  the  shares  were 
disposed  of  by  casting  lots. 

198:200.    resolution.     Determination. 

199  :  244.  Mess.  By  the  mass.  —  245.  I'd  rather  kiss  these 
gentlewomen.  Kissing  as  a  form  of  salutation  was  common 
even  between  men.  —  246.  Mrs.  Angelica.  The  form  "  Mrs." 
was  commonly  applied  to  unmarried  women  in  the  time  of 
Congreve. 


454  LOVE   FOR   LOVE 

200:303.   an  you  come  to  sea  in  a  high  wind,  or  that.     If  you 

come  to  sea  in  a  high  wind  for  that  matter. 

201 :  334.  an  you  stand  astern  a  that'n.  If  you  stand  back  to 
me  in  that  way. 

203 :  397.  I  may  giv'n  a  salt  eel  for's  supper.  Throw  him 
overboard,  or  perhaps  the  appHcation  of  a  rope's  end  to  his 
back.  —  411.    Tom  Essence.     Ben's  name  for  a  fop. 

204 :  412.  I'll  lace  his  musk  doublet.  That  is,  I'll  embroider 
his  scented  doublet  with  a  beating. 

205:32.  Blackwall.  A  notable  harbour  for  shipping. — 
43.  Raymond  Lully.  A  Spanish  scholar  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, famous  for  his  attempt  to  convert  the  Moors.  —  44. 
Lilly.  WilHam  Lilly,  an  English  astrologer  and  wise  man,  no- 
torious as  a  fortune-teller  in  the  time  of  Charles  I. 

206:  55.  blackguard.  Strictly  speaking,  the  blackguard  was 
the  servants  who  had  charge  of  the  pots  and  kettles  and  who  rode 
in  a  carnage  in  which  these  articles  were  carried  when  a  great 
person  went  on  a  journey;  hence  any  servant  employed  for  an 
inferior  task.  —  76.  Pineda.  Juan  de  Pineda  was  a  Spanish 
monk  and  theologian  who  wrote  commentaries  on  Scripture. 
The  reference  is,  of  course,  a  mock  one.  —  82.  Gregory  the  Great 
in  favour  of  astrology.  That  Pope  Gregory  should  have  fa- 
voured astrology  is  possible,  but  Scandal  is,  of  course,  talking  at 
random.  —  82.  Albertus  Magnus.  The  great  schoolman  of 
the  thirteenth  century  was  more  interested,  we  may  feel  sure, 
in  theology  and  philosophy  than  in  astrology. 

210:  189.  diacodian.  A  syrup  prepared  from  poppy-heads, 
an  opiate.  —  193.  The  Crumbs  of  Comfort.  There  is  actually 
a  work  of  this  title  printed  by  Michael  Spark  in  1628  with  the 
added  words  "  with  godly  prayers  corrected  and  amended." — • 
202.  And  I  hope  .  .  .  combust.  In  the  matter  of  diseases  as 
predicted  by  astrology,  the  moon  was  supposed  to  exercise  a 
peculiar  power  over  the  bladder,  hence  the  force  of  Foresight's 
allusion.  —  205.  both  Sol  and  Venus  in  the  sixth  house.  As 
far  as  astrology  goes  this  is  a  blunder  on  the  part  of  Scandal,  for 
Sol  and  Venus  in  the  sixth  house  were  not  propitious  omens; 
but  Scandal  seems  to  think  that  Sol  and  Venus  must  bring 
a  happy  culmination  to  his  love  affair. 

212 :  282.  you've  nicked  the  channel.  A  sea  phrase  for 
"  You've  hit  the  nail  on  the  head."  —  285.  the  Marygold.  The 
ship  on  which  Ben  was  a  sailor. 


LOVE   FOR    LOVE  455 

214 :  337.    To  loggerheads  they  went.     They  fell  to  blows. 

219  :  117.    Sirrah.     The  regular  form  of  address  to  a  servant. 

221 :  26.  I  have  .  .  .  term.  Westminster  Hall  was  formerly 
the  seat  of  the  courts.  Oaths  were  there  administered  and  other 
legal  business  that  had  to  do  with  the  undoing  of  unthrifts. 

222  :  70.    perform  articles.     Keep  your  agreements. 

223 :  94.  act  St.  Dunstan  .  .  .  nose.  St.  Dunstan  is  said  to 
have  caught  the  devil  by  the  nose  with  a  pair  of  pincers  when  the 
latter  was  trying  to  tempt  him.  —  99.  the  rogue  .  .  .  presently. 
A  law  term  which  indicated  that  a  man  who  had  not  five 
pounds  had  none  the  less  a  right  to  sue  in  the  guise  of  a  poor 
man. 

224:  123.  Erra  Pater.  "  Erra  Pater"  was  a  nickname  be- 
stowed on  William  Lilly,  the  almanac  maker  and  astrologer,  by 
But]eT  in  his  Hudibras.  —  7.  Where's  your  .  .  .  quadrates?  See 
note,  177  :  206-20S.  —  7.  Cardan.  Girolamo  Cardano,  a  noted 
Italian  physician  and  astrologer  of  the  si.xteenth  century,  a 
great  authority  on  astrology  and  mathematics.  —  9.  Longo- 
montanus.  A  great  Danish  mathematician,  the  friend  of  Tycho 
Brahc.  He  died  in  1647.  —  9.  chiromancy.  The  art  of  telling 
the  fortune  from  the  palm. 

225 :  19.  Nemo  omnibus  horis  sapit.  No  one  is  wise  at  all 
times. 

226 :  80.  calentures.  A  disease  of  sailors,  accompanied  by 
frenzy  in  which  the  affected  person  wishes  to  jump  into  the 
sea. 

227  197.  learn  her  sampler.  Children  of  the  eighteenth  and 
early  nineteenth  centuries  were  accustomed  to  learn  their  letters 
by  working  the  alphabet  into  a  kind  of  coarse  cloth.  This  was 
called  a  sampler.  —  107.  there's  more  danger  .  .  .  heart. 
Ben  thinks  that  his  father's  head  will  ache  because  of  the 
'lorns  that  will  be  growing  on  it.  Then  as  now  it  was  a 
popular  belief  that  a  young  woman_  was  more  apt  to  prove  false 
to  her  husband. 

229  :  167.  come  to  an  anchor  at  Cuckold's-point.  Be  made  a 
cuckold  of  in  the  end.  A  ])lace  on  the  Surrey  side  of  the  Thames 
a  little  below  Rotherhithc  Church  was  formerly  so  designated, 
and  distinguished  by  a  tail  pole  bearing  a  pair  of  horns. 

231:225.  the  horned  herd  .  .  .  at  two.  The  New  Exchange 
in  the  Strand  was  at  lliis  lime  a  great  congregating  place  for  all 
sorts    of    people.  —  250.    when    the    pigeons  .  .  .  feet.     This 


4s6  LOVE   FOR   LOVE 

seems  to  have  been  a  common  method  of  treatment  in  the 
eighteenth  century. 

236:420.  if  I  don't  fit  you.  If  I  don't  play  you  as  fine  a  trick 
as  you  have  played  me. 

237 :  440.  by  articles.  By  a  signed  agreement.  —  460. 
chemist.     Alchemist. 

245  :  20.    the  seeds.     The  rudiments. 

248  :  118.  take  me  along  with  you.  Let  me  understand  you. 
—  128.    likeness  of  you.     Likeness  to  you. 

249:  151.  the  girl's  influenced.  Under  some  malign  plane- 
tary influence,  slightly  deranged. 

251:2  28.  in  via  lactea  !  In  the  Milky  Way.  —  239.  the 
weekly  bills.     Lists  of  births  posted  in  public. 

256  :  425.-  you're  a  crocodile  !  The  crocodile  was  the  symbol 
of  deceit. 

258 :  476.  In  admiring  .  .  .  novelty.  That  is,  make  a  nov- 
elty out  of  what  doesn't  really  deserve  it. 

259.  The  New  House.  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  which  was 
opened  with  this  play.  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  took  the  part  of 
Angelica.  —  8.  For  when  .  .  .  reading.  This  may  be  para- 
phrased as  follows :  Sometimes,  when  their  plays  are  being 
brought  out,  in  order  to  make  a  favourable  impression  on  the 
audience  they  interpret  the  meaning  of  their  works.  —  10.  And 
wanting  .  .  .  parts.  To  "  top  one's  part  "  was  to  perform  one's 
part  with  success.  The  expression,  "  They  top  their  learning 
on  us,"  seems  to  imply  that  there  is  rather  too  much  of  the 
learning.  —  12.  Once  of  philosophers  .  .  .  Pythagories.  A 
reference  to  the  doctrine  of  the  transmigration  of  souls,  set  forth 
in  Plato's  Republic.  The  doctrine  is  usually  associated  with 
Pythagoras.  —  27.  Now  find  us  tossed  .  .  .  tennis-court.  The 
site  of  the  New  House  was  before  this  occupied  by  a  tennis- 
court. 

260 :  29.  damn-me  boys.  Roistering  and  dissipated  young 
men.  —  37.  How  we  should  .  .  .  cart.  When  the  drama 
passed  out  of  the  control  of  the  church  into  the  hands  of  the 
guilds,  the  performances  were  staged  upon  platforms  carried 
upon  wagons.  For  a  full  account  of  this  phase  of  development 
of  the  early  drama  see  Ward's  History  of  Dramatic  Literature, 
Vol.  I. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD  457 

THE    WAY   OF   THE   WORLD 

261.  Audire  est  operas  .  .  .  [laborent].  It  is  worth  your 
while,  ye  that  do  not  wish  well  to  adulterers,  to  hear  how  they 
are  hampered  on  all  sides.  —  [Haec]  metuat  .  .  .  deprensa. 
The  woman  fears  for  her  dowry,  if  she  should  be  caught. 

263 :  2.  In  the  vain  joys  .  .  .  sight.  A  reference  is  here 
intended  to  the  various  shows  which  were  common  in  London 
at  this  time.  —  12.  Though  senseless  .  .  .  quaff.  That  is,  the 
well-dressed  barbarians  know  Congreve's  name  and  power,  such 
is  his  compelling  art,  although  they  are  insensible  to  mirth  except 
when  they  laugh  and  feel  wise  only  when  they  have  drunk  to  a 
surfeit.  —  15.  Arabella.  A  generic  name  for  the  ladies  who 
inspire  the  Ij'rical  name  of  Congreve.  —  23.  William  glorious 
in  the  strife.  The  allusion  is  to  Congreve's  To  the  King,  on  the 
taking  of  Namour. 

268 :  8.  In  her  own  nest  .  .  .  changeling-kind.  An  allu- 
sion to  the  fact  that  the  cuckoo  lays  her  eggs  in  the  nest  of 
another  bird.  —  15.  The  squire  .  .  .  undone.  "  Buttered 
still,"  that  is,  always  heaped  with  loathsome  flattery. 

273 :  64.  declares  for  a  friend  and  ratafia.  Ratafia  was  a 
liqueur  flavoured  with  fruits.  The  term  friend  as  here  used  in- 
dicates a  man  friend  with  whom  one's  relations  were  not  entirely 
unquestionable.  —  69.  continued  in  the  state  of  nature.  Gone 
on  in  a  natural  course. 

274:  no.  the  last  canonical  hour.  Canonical  hours  were 
hours  prescribed  by  the  canons  when  prayers  might  be  said.  — 
116.  Pancras.  The  Church  of  St.  Pancras  in  the  Fields.  —  122. 
Duke's-place.  St.  James's  Church,  Duke's-place,  Aldgate,  be- 
came notorious  for  the  irregular  marriages,  under  the  name  of 
Fleet  marriages,  that  were  to  be  purchased  there. 

275:  132.  Dame  Partlet.  Partlet  or  Pertelote,  the  name  of 
the  hen  in  Chaucer's  Nonne  Preestes  Tale.  —  134.  Rosamond's 
Pond.  A  famous  meeting  place  of  lovers,  situated  in  the  south- 
western corner  of  St.  James's  Park. 

277:  90.   the  monster  in  The  Tempest.     Caliban. 

278 :  94.  commonplace  of  comparisons.  A  collection  of  fig- 
ures or  quotations  for  the  purposes  of  argument  or  conversation. 

281:2  23.  cinnamon- water.  A  drink  composed  of  sugar, 
water,  and  spirit  flavoured  with  cinnamon. 

282  :  242.   he  would  slip  you  out  of  this  chocolate-house.     He 


458  THE   WAY  OF   THE  WORLD 

would  slip  out  of  this  chocolate-house.  This  is  an  instance  of 
the  ethical  dative. 

284:  3  2g.  thou  wo't  tell  me.  The  form  tvo'l  is  a  contraction 
of  woulds't.     Compare  also  ska'f,  line  317  above. 

285:  358.  worse  than  a  quaker  hates  a  parrot.  Because  the 
parrot  is  so  talkative.  —  359.  than  a  fishmonger  hates  a  hard 
frost.  The  work  of  the  fish  pedlar  was  made  very  disagreeable 
by  cold  weather. 

286:381.  the  Mall.  A  broad  promenade  in  St.  James's 
Park,  now  the  street  known  as  Pall  Mall. 

288:39.  transcendently.  An  affectation  in  the  fashionable 
speech  of  the  day.  —  51.    Penthesilea.     Queen  of  the  Amazons. 

294:  257.  you  have  a  mask.  Masks  were  commonly  worn 
in  the  eighteenth  century. 

295 :  46.  like  Mosca  in  The  Fox  .  .  .  terms.  "  To  stand 
upon  terms  "  is  to  dally  over  the  terms  of  an  agreement.  Mosca 
in  Ben  Jonson's  comedy  Volpone  deceives  the  suitors  of  Volpone 
by  making  them  believe  that  his  master  is  about  to  die  and  make 
them  his  heirs. 

296  :  79.    the  beau  monde.     The  world  of  fashion. 

298:  123.  tift  and  tift.  A  lift  is  a  lit  of  perverse  fretting,  a 
humour. 

300 :  203.  You  are  not  .  .  .  fools.  From  the  general  trend 
of  the  conversation  it  would  seem  that  course  is  here  used  in  the 
sense  of  a  course  of  treatment  in  which  fools  are  the  chief  medici- 
nal agent.  —  226.  like  Solomon  .  .  .  hanging.  Such  Biblical 
subjects  often  formed  the  basis  for  designs  in  tapestry. 

302  :  303.    B'w'y.     A  contraction  of  "  God  be  with  you." 

304:8.  Mopus.  A  dull  person.  —  12.  Spanish  paper.  Used 
for  the  complexion. 

305:31.  with  a  bit  of  nutmeg.  Nutmeg  was  much  eaten 
in  eighteenth-century  England.  —  38.  like  Maritornes  .  .  . 
Quixote.  Maritornes  is  a  chambermaid  with  whom  Don  Quixote 
persists  in  being  in  love. 

306  :  65.  Quarles  and  Prynne.  Francis  Quarles  was  a  writer 
of  sacred  poems,  author  of  Divine  Emblems,  one  of  the  most 
popular  works  of  the  age.  William  Prynne  was  a  lawyer  and 
pamphleteer,  author  of  Histriomastix,  a  savage  attack  upon  the 
stage  in  the  time  of  Charles  I.  —  66.  The  Short  View  of  the 
Stage.  The  full  title  is  A  Short  View  of  the  Profancness  and 
Immorality  of  the  English  Stage.     This  righteous  attack  on  the 


THE   WAY    OF   THE   WORLD  459 

abuses  of  the  stage  by  Jeremy  Collier  caused  a  flutter  among  the 
playwrights  and  in  time  brought  about  a  modicum  of  reform. 
Congreve  was  especially  censured. 

307 :  103.  Robin  from  Locket's.  One  of  the  drawers  or 
waiters  ;it  Locket's  ordinary  in  Charing  Cross. 

308:  1 2Q.  like  a  Long-lane  penthouse.  Long-lane  from 
West  Smithfield  to  Barbican  was  occupied  by  the  sellers  of  old 
clothes.  A  penthouse  was  here  a  species  of  continuous  shed  or 
arcade,  covering  the  walk.  —  131.  the  million  lottery.  A  lot- 
tery the  prizes  of  which  amounted  to  a  million  pounds  in  the 
advertisements.  —  132.  the  whole  court  upon  a  birthday. 
Because  of  the  presents  that  custom  demanded.  —  137.  Lud- 
gate  .  .  .  Blackfriars  .  .  .  old  mitten.  Ludgate  was  one  of 
the  better  debtors'  prisons.  It  abutted  on  the  precinct  of 
Blackfriars.  To  angle  with  a  mitten  refers  to  the  custom  of 
imprisoned  debtors  who  begged  alms  of  passers-by  through  a 
grating.  Here  doubtless  a  string  was  let  down  from  an  upper 
window  with  a  mitten  in  which  the  benevolent  passer-by  might 
put  his  farthing,  subsequently  to  be  drawn  up. 

310 :  215.  has  a  month's  mind.  To  have  an  inclination  to  a 
thing.  —  3.   passe-partout.     Master-key. 

311 :  24.  any  chemist  upon  the  day  of  projection.  The  cul- 
mination of  an  experiment  in  alchemy,  when  the  metals  were 
supposed  to  be  transmuted  into  gold  was  called  a  projec- 
tion. 

313 :  23.  drap  de  Berri.  Probably  drap  or  etoffe  de  beret, 
cloth  of  Berri,  described  as  Russian,  doubtless  here  a  coarse 
cloth.  —  36.  'Tis  like  ...  on  her  hips.  Lacing  under  these 
conditions  would  cause  the  hips  to  increase  in  size.  —  39.  Rhen- 
ish wine  tea.  Taken  to  reduce  flesh.  —  42.  a  discarded  toast. 
A  lady  who  has  ceased  to  be  the  reigning  belle  and  subject  of  the 
toasts  of  her  friends  and  suitors. 

314:77.  I'll  take  my  death.  I  hope  to  die  if  what  I  say  is  not 
true. 

315 :  108.  in  the  main.  Main  is  here  mean,  the  middle  or 
tenor  part,  with  which  the  other  two  harmonize.  There  is  also 
a  play  on  the  more  obvious  meaning  of  the  word. 

316:  143.  The  ordinary's  paid  for  setting  the  psalm.  The 
ordinary  was  the  chaplain  of  Newgate  prison,  whose  duty  it  was 
to  prepare  condemned  criminals  for  death. 

317:  149.    In  the  name  of  Bartlemew  and  his  fair.     The  fair 


46o  THE  WAY   OF   THE   WORLD 

of  St.  Bartlemew  or  St.  Bartholomew  was  held  in  Smithfield 
every  August.  It  was  the  great  cloth  fair  of  England  and  is 
here  invoked  by  Witwoud  because  of  the  strange  appearance  of 
his  brother. 

318:198.  smoke  him.  Torment,  mock,  tease  him.  —  205. 
thereafter,  as  'tis  meant.     Take  as  it  (i.e.  offence)  is  meant. 

319  :  236.  a  hare's  scut.  A  hare's  short  tail,  equivalent  to  a 
fig  for  your  service.  —  243.  Salop.  Shropshire,  an  inland 
county  of  England  bordering  on  Wales.  —  248.  like  a  call  of 
Serjeants.  Serjeant  appears  here  to  have  its  earlier  meaning,  a 
servant. 

320  :  261.  out  of  your  time.  While  you  were  still  indentured 
to  an  attorney.  —  262.  Furnival's  Inn.  In  Holborn,  formerly 
one  of  the  inns  of  Chancery,  attached  to  Lincoln's  Inn.  —  263. 
reckan.  Reckan  (in  the  old  editions  rekin,  absurdly  modernized 
Wrekin)  is  the  crane  or  iron  bar  from  which  hung  the  pots  in  the 
fireplace.  —  264.  Dawks's  Letter.  In  1696  Ichabod  Dawks 
started  his  News-letter.  It  was  printed  on  good  paper  in  imi- 
tation of  writing  with  a  space  for  the  gentleman  who  sent  it  to 
his  friends  to  write  by  hand  matters  of  private  business.  —  265. 
Weekly  Bill.  Several  newspapers  contained  the  word  Weekly 
in  their  titles  as  The  Weekly  News,  The  Weekly  Packet.  —  289. 
If  an  how  .  .  .  abate.  If  peace  holds  v/hereby  taxes  will  be 
reduced.     Sir  Wilful  speaks  with  provincial  indirectness. 

321 :  301.  'Tis  like  there  may.  Very  likely  there  is.  —  322. 
rally  their  best  friends  to  choose.  That  is,  make  as  much  fun 
of  them  as  they  like. 

322 :  359.  like  a  deputy-lieutenant's  hall.  That  is,  with  all 
sorts  of  arms.  The  horns  of  the  cuckold  were  often  spoken  of 
as  armament. 

323 :  360.  cap  of  maintenance.  A  cap  or  hat  which  was  a 
sign  of  high  ofifice,  carried  before  a  sovereign  or  person  of  high 
authority  in  a  procession.  — ■  385.  I'll  set  his  hand  in.  See  him 
well  started.  —  387.  how  .  .  .  lady?  Just  what  are  your 
feelings  toward  your  lady? 

327:53.  Sir  John  Suckling.  A  famous  lyric  and  dramatic 
poet  of  the  early  seventeenth  century. 

328:  61.  Thyrsis,  a  youth  .  .  .  train.  A  line  from  a  poem  of 
Edmund  Waller. 

329  :  95.  I  prithee  .  .  .  slight  toy.  These  and  some  of  the 
following  lines  are  Suckling's. 


THE  WAY   OF   THE   WORLD  461 

330:  141.  all  a  case.  It  is  all  the  same.  —  151.  Like  Phce- 
bus  .  .  .  boy.     A  further  line  from  the  same  poem  by  Waller. 

331 :  173.  in  things  of  common  application.  In  the  affairs  of 
everyday  life.  — 187.  douceurs,  ye  sommeils  du  matin. 
Sweetnesses,  yc  morning  naps. 

333:252.  hogs'  bones,  hares"  gall  .  .  .  cat.  A  playful 
e.xaggeration  of  some  of  the  popular  nostrums  of  the  day. 

334:275.  Barbadoes  waters.  A  cordial  flavoured  with 
orange-peel. 

335:331.  an  unsized  camlet.  Camlet  was  a  light  stuff  of 
wool  and  linen,  formerly  from  the  East.  Unsized,  that  is,  un- 
stiffened,  not  sized.  —  332.  noli  prosequi.  To  be  unwilling  to 
prosecute.  An  acknowledgment  by  the  plaintiff  that  he  will  not 
press  a  suit  further. 

336:345.  my  dear  Lacedemonian.  Applied  to  Petulant  on 
account  of  his  power  as  an  "  epitomizer  of  words  "  as  Witwoud 
says.  —353.  and  Baldwin  yonder.  The  name  of  the  fox  in  the 
beast-epic  Reynard  the  Fox,  also  applied  to  the  ass  by  Chaucer. 
—  354.  A  Gemini  .  .  .  you.  Gemini,  the  name  for  the  twin 
stars  Castor  and  Pollux  was  often  used  of  pairs  of  things. 

337 :  6.  Borachio.  A  villain,  follower  of  Don  John,  in 
Shakespeare's  Much  Ado  About  Nothing.  Borachio  is  the 
Spanish  term  for  a  leather  wine  bottle,  hence  used  for  a  drunkard. 

339 :  79.  bastinadoed  with  broomsticks.  That  is,  beaten  on 
the  soles  of  the  feet. 

340  :  90.    Salopian.     An  inhabitant  of  Salop  or  Shropshire. 

346 :  14.  a  ballad-monger.  A  seller  of  ballads.  In  eigh- 
teenth-century London  these  were  sold  upon  the  streets  by  itiner- 
ant pedlars.  —  14.  Frisoneer  gorget.  A  piece  of  apparel  for 
the  neck,  a  kerchief,  made  of  Frisoneer,  perhaps  the  same  word 
as  Prison  or  frieze,  a  woollen  stuff  originally  made  in  Friesland. 
The  word  Frisoneer  does  not  apparently  occur  elsewhere. 

347 :  36.  a  cast  servingman.  A  servingman  that  has  been 
discharged.  —  46.  and  been  put  upon  his  clergy.  Forced  to 
plead  the  benefit  of  the  clergy,  or  privilege  of  exemption  from 
capital  punishment  because  of  an  ability  to  read  and  write.  — 
47.  meddle  or  make.  Have  anything  to  do  with  the  affair.  — 
54.  Abigails  and  Andrews.  Abigail  was  a  common  name  for  a 
lady's  maid;  Andrew  for  a  valet.  —  55.  Philander.  A  lover  in 
Ariosto's  Orlando  Furioso  ruined  by  the  lustful  Gabrina.  Here 
merely  a  lover  with  an  uncompHmentary  allusion  to  Foible.  — 


462  THE   WAY   OF   THF:   WORLD 

56.  I'll  Duke's-place  you.  Marry  you  in  a  hurry  as  they  do  at 
Duke'splace,  Aldgate,  where  St.  James's  Church  was  situated,  a 
place  notorious  for  irregular  marriages.  —  60.  a  Bridewell- 
bride.  A  loose  woman  committed  to  a  prison  for  vagrants  and 
social  criminals.  The  prison  was  supposed  to  stand  over  the  well 
of  St.  Bride. 

351 :  55.  a  brass  counter.  A  small  piece  of  metal  used  as  a 
token  and  in  accounting. 

352  :  93.  in  a  quoif  like  a  man  midwife.  The  legal  costume 
of  the  day  included  a  hood.  —  97.  doomsday-book.  A  survey 
of  England  taken  in  10S6.  —  102.  cantharides.  A  medicament 
used  for  blistering.  —  105.  the  Temple.  One  of  the  Inns  of 
Court,  where  students  at  law  were  educated. 

354:  151.  exceeding  the  barbarity  of  a  Muscovite  husband. 
The  Russian  was  often  used  in  the  eighteenth  century  as  the 
symbol  of  roughness  and  cruelty.  —  152.  from  his  Czarish 
majesty's  retinue.  An  allusion  to  the  visit  of  the  Czar,  Peter 
the  First,  three  years  before.^  171.  while  the  instrument  is 
drawing.     While  the  agreement  is  being  drawn  up. 

357  :  259.  By'r  Lady.  By  Our  Lady.  —  272.  o'  the  quorum. 
Certain  justices  of  the  peace  whose  presence  was  essential  to 
constitute  a  bench. 

358:  13.  an  old  fox.  A  colloquial  name  for  a  sword.  —  15. 
a  mittimus.  A  command  in  writing  to  a  jailer  to  keep  the  per- 
son in  custody  in  close  confinement ;  here  the  vellum  upon  which 
such  an  order  might  be  written. 

359  :  29.  bear-garden  flourish.  A  flourish  suitable  for  a  bear- 
garden. Bear-baiting  formed  one  of  the  lowest  types  of  amuse- 
ment in  seventeenth-century  London.  These  places  were  the 
scenes  of  many  brawls. 

360  :  70-  Messalina's  poems.  Messalina  was  the  wife  of  the 
emperor  Claudian.  Her  name  is  constantly  associated  with 
incontinence. 

364:  212.  paid  in  kind.  In  order  to  realize  the  full  sense  of 
this  play  upon  words  one  must  bear  in  mind  that  the  idea  of 
children  was  seldom  separated  from  the  word  kind. 


THE   iVIOURNING    BRIDE  463 


THE    MOURNING   BRIDE 

367.  Neque  enim  .  .  .  sua.  For  no  law  is  more  just  than 
that  contrivers  of  death  should  perish  by  their  own  act.  For  de 
Arte  Armandi  we  should  read  Ars  Amatoria. 

378:  102.    If  for  my  swelling  heart.     If  my  swelling  heart 

permits. 

380 :  169.  Through  ...  fire.  One  is  forcibly  reminded  by 
this  passage  of  the  concentric  rings  of  Dante's  hell.  The  idea  is 
taken  from  the  tenth  book  of  Plato's  Republic. 

381:222.  and  every  limb  .  .  .  admiration.  Exercise  all  the 
power  it  had  in  looking  on  with  wonder. 

383:  10.  sad  weeds.  Mourning  garments.  —  12.  daughters 
of  affliction.  So  were  called  the  waihng  women  in  ancient  Jeru- 
salem. 

384:  51.   I  wo'  not.     I  would  not. 

387:157.  to  pay  devotion  here.  That  is,  to  Zara.  The 
speech  was  accompanied  by  some  appropriate  gesture. 

389  :  19.  As  to  some  object  frightful.  This  is  to  be  taken  with 
the  phrase,  "  Then  forward  shot  their  fires,"  that  is,  the  fires 
of  his  eyes. 

396 :  144.  on  my  father's  lead.  The  lead  in  which  the  dead 
body  was  encased. 

397:  174.    Or  .   .  .  or.     Either  ...  or. 
402  :  150.    Divinity.     Here  used  for  a  divine  being. 
405  :  34.    that  winks  and  wakes  by  turns.     That  by  turns  is 
asleep  and  awake. 

419:  61.    the  cry.     The  full  pack. 

421:  128.  I  have  discovered  .  .  .  practice.  This  method  of 
expressing  the  relation  which  would  now  be  expressed  by  the 
possessive  case  was  common  l)efore  the  present  usage  in  regard 
to  the  possessive  case  liad  gained  full  sanction. 

427:  326.  Ye  winds  .  .  .  witness.  From  the  next  speech  of 
Manuel  it  appears  that  Almeria  faints  or  seems  to  fainl  after 
making  this  speech. 

428  :  377.  amuse.  Here  used  in  the  sense  of  divert  the  atten- 
tion of,  deceive,  beguile.  —  379.  One  to  my  wish.  The  ex- 
clamation of  Gonsalez  as  he  catches  sight  of  Alonzo.  — •  381.  i' 
the  way.     To  be  found. 

433:82.   like  the  raging  dog-star,  scorch  the  earth.     Sirius, 


464  THE   MOURNING   BRIDE 

the   dog-star,  was   supposed   by  classical   tradition   to  exercise 
great  control  over  the  weather. 

444 :  10.  like  parish  searchers  .  .  .  expired.  Parish  search- 
ers were  people  whose  duty  it  was  to  find  out  and  report  the 
causes  of  death  in  a  parish. 


GLOSSARY 


Terms  readily  found  in  an  unabridged  dictionary,  an  encyclopsedia,  or 
a  gazetteer  are  for  the  most  part  not  included  in  this  list. 


Abuse,  deceive. 
Anan,  anon. 

Antegoa,  probably  Aatigua,  one 
of  the  West  Indies. 

Bagnio,  a  vapour  bath. 

Bassa,  bashaw,  pasha. 

Belles-assemblees,  social  gather- 
ings, balls. 

Bilboe,  shackles  attached  to  an 
iron  bar,  used  in  Spain  in  the 
manner  of  stocks. 

Bilk,  cheat,  balk. 

Burnish,  increase  in  breadth,  grow 
plump. 

Cadua,  a  discarded  mistress. 

Catcall,  whistle. 

Causes,  cases  at  law. 

Chairman,  carrier  of  a  sedan  chair. 

Choose,  do  as  you  like. 

Chopping,  liisty,  huge,  bouncing. 

Clog,  hinder. 

Coats,  petticoats. 

Cockatrice,  a  fabulous  serpent 
said  to  kill  by  its  look. 

Colbertine,  a  kind  of  open  lace- 
work. 

Colour,  a  trick,  a  piece  of  decep- 
tion. 

Composition,  agreement. 

Consort,  concert. 

Convince,  persuade. 

Cowage,  a  sharp,  nettle-like  plant. 

Crips,  an  absolete  form  of  crisp. 

Diacodian,  preferably  diacodium, 
a  syrup  prepared  from  poppy- 
heads  and  used  as  an  opiate. 

Disease,  to  deprive  of  ease. 

Double,  possible  of  being  misun- 
derstood, ambiguous. 

Doubt,  suspect. 

CONGREVE 30 


Earnest,  money  paid  to  bind  a 
bargain. 

Ephemeris,  a  calendar  of  predic- 
tions as  to  the  position  of  the 
heavenly  bodies. 

Expecting,  awaiting. 

Fable,  plot,  story. 

Fashioning,  taking  shape. 

Fell,  fell-wool,  felt. 

Firk,   to  beat ;    also  to  cheat  or 

rob. 
Flocks,  locks  of  wool. 
Fob,  fool. 
Fond,  foolish. 

Forecast,  foresight,  calculation. 
Frisoneer,  probably  Frisian. 

Gadsbud,  an  attenuated  form  of 

God's  blood. 
Gadsobs,    an    affected    oath    for 

God's  sobs. 
Gazette,  a  newspaper. 
Gill-flirt,  saucy  flirt. 
Gorget,   a  scarf  worn  about  the 

throat  and  bosom. 

Hardly;  with  difSculty. 
Honest,  virtuous. 
Horn-book,  an  old-fashioned  ABC 
card. 

Ignorant,  ignoramus. 

Informed,   furnished  with  certain 

qualities. 
Intercessor,   one  who   pleads  for 

another. 

Jealous,  suspicious. 
Journey-work,    day  labour,   work 
as  an  apprentice. 

465 


466 


GLOSSARY 


Manured,  worked  with  the  hands. 

Mar'le,  marvel. 

Maze,  labyrinth. 

Mem,    an     affected     variant     of 

ma'am. 
Mess,  by  the  mass. 
Modish,  fashionable,  in  good  taste. 
Mortify,  kill. 
Mun,  man. 

New-coin,  make  over,  recast. 
Nightgown,  dressing  robe. 
Numbers,  rhythmical  sounds,  me- 
tre. 

Oaf,  a  form  of  elf,  a  foolish  child 
left  in  the  place  of  another  by  a 
fairy. 

Oons,  a  mincing  form  of  the  oath, 
God's  wounds. 

Ordinary,  the  chaplain  of  a  prison. 

Original,  a  fool. 

Packthread,  wrapping  twine. 

Paw,  nasty,  improper. 

Philomath,  lover  of  learning, 
usually  distinguished  from  a 
student. 

Pho,  bah,  bosh. 

Pize,  a  word  of  uncertain  origin 
and  meaning  used  in  impreca- 
tions. 

Presently,  at  once. 

Prevent,  to  anticipate  by  coming 
before. 

Punk,  prostitute. 

Qualify,  moderate. 


Rantipol,  wild,  romping. 

Ratafia,  a  liqueur  flavoured  with 

fruit. 
Reckan,  an  iron  crane. 
Resolve,  inform,  clear  up  matters 

for. 

Save-all,  a  device  for  burning  a 
candle  to  the  very  end. 

Scut,  a  short  tail. 

Secure,  free  from  care. 

Speed,  prosper. 

Stalking-horse,  a  blind,  lure  for 
game. 

Stinkard,  common  fellow. 

Stomach,  courage,  inclination  or 
appetite;  also  the  qualities 
which  accompany  good  appe- 
tite. 

Stomacher,  the  front  of  a  bodice 
overlapping  the  skirt. 

Telling,  numbering. 

Tendre,  tenderness,  affection. 

Term,  end. 

Tick,  ticket. 

Tift,  bad  fretting  humour. 

Turtle,  lover. 

Udso,  an  attenuated  form  of  God's 

soul. 
Underbear,  undergo. 
Undergo,  endure. 

Weed,  garment. 
Withouten,  without. 
Woundy,  exceedingly,  very. 


i 


SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  UBRARm^^^ 


AA      000  252  001    3 


CENTRAL  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
University  of  California,  San  Diego 


DATE  DUE 

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?e    -  -    -- 

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MAR  1 1  I97f    • 

MAR   E  o"c 

P?ff  X  RH3r 

htb  Ui.  1379 

C/59 

UCSD  Libr. 

